Hold the Glimmer

Archive for the ‘Men are stupid’ Category

Why hello there, glimmerheads! It’s been a hot minute (week, month, whatever) since we’ve spoken, but how are you?  Me? I’m alive! Believe it or not, I held the glimmer long enough to not buy a gun and “go corporate” and instead got a new job!  (Pause for gasp, shock, sigh, and breathe….)

Now, said new job is still within the same company, but at the absolute very least, I’m no longer responsible for spoon feeding or physically wiping my bosses’ asses.  I no longer have to scrub coffee out of the poor, tantrum ridden carpets!  No more verbal abuse over the phone as bossman blames me for his chauffer’s poor driving skills in Omaha! I survived hell! Can you believe it?!  I now have actual responsibilities, and yes, that scares me closer to death than I need to be, but ultimately a pretty goddamn rewarding drive home, full of reflections of daily accomplishments and accolades.  Who would have guessed how far a simple “you’re awesome” or “thank you” really goes?  My new job makes me feel needed, wanted, appreciated- basically how any normal human being should feel.  This may explain my lack of posting, but after switching to this new position and thanks to multiple comments from coworkers, I realized I was on suicide watch for the last three years.  Apparently, once you start smiling again, people get weirded out by the lack of somber attitude, and wonder what’s really wrong.  I’ve been elated to inform them, my absolutely freaked out parents, and all of you that I’m actually HAPPY! 

Ahhhh fuck. 

This blog is sooo gonna die soon.

Nope, I will not let it.

There are so many other aspects of life in which holding the glimmer is absolutely crucial.  I’d tell you the recent events of a gorgeously long legged pedestrian (ya, that’s actually me, all five foot five of me) crossing the street and getting hit by a drunk driver AFTER said drunk driver had already hit a car and was trying to flee the scene around 3am in Hollywood, but I still have anxiety and leg spasms, so why not dive into where holding the glimmer is most needed- my love life.

Here is my declaration: I’m officially an on-line dater. Go find me. I don’t care.  I just told you I’m online dating; do you think my integrity, morals, or values really matter anymore?  Actually, are you mildly attractive with a steady income, little to no emotional or personal issues that need fixing (ie: mom/dad issues, past major drug problems, abandonment anything…)and need a date?  Needle in a haystack I say, but hey, maybe you’re out there!  Blog dating is still online dating, right?  Duke, I think I’m on to something here…

Online dating, you are a beast of many colors.  After a slightly too long “off and on” relationship, I decided I was interested in feeling actual worth again and with little to no interest in wading  through the pudding-like consistency of a  bar scene to find my next beau, signed myself up for some good ol internet fun (don’t you dare define fun, ok?) And fun I found!

After completing the unnecessarily arduous profile, I sat back and relaxed, hoping Mr. Right (now?) would show up in my inbox.  Roughly 39 seconds later, I received this: (please note, every single name below HAS been changed (kinda), in fear of repercussions and, well, I slightly feel bad for them…)(Ok. Maybe some haven’t. Sue me.)

___________________________________________________________

Ikeepawordforyoualways:

Gorgeus Halo my beautiful.  I am in study to become doctor at UCLA. GO BRUINS! Wanna meet to talk to me possible today ? Ciao

____________________________________________________________

Ok. Who the fuck is in charge of admissions at UCLA, because this person either needs to be fired, or sue the shit out of Ikeepawordforyoualways for slandering such an institution. 

____________________________________________________________

Justthetip:

Wanna cuddle?

____________________________________________________________

Right. Let’s cuddle.  Is this before or after you saw my legs off with a dull machete and carve out my arms then spoon feed me my toes with my own (now detached) hand?  (Let’s be real honest. Screen name Justthetip- hilarious. Do I want to cuddle?  I don’t even remember what it’s like to cuddle, let alone if I even know HOW to cuddle, but you bet your ass I want to.  Unfortunately, I have to trust my instincts and anyone willing to be that forward in a “first impressions” kind of world gives me the heebee jeeb’s.)

After countless “let’s bang” or “will u marrie me plz” emails, I thought I found gold when I struck up a convo with a seemingly literate and attractive man.  After a few email exchanges, we decided on meeting for drinks.  I mean, what could go wrong over drinks?

Nothing.  Absolutely nothing went wrong.  There was good conversation, he made me laugh, I made him laugh, we shared some similar stories, parted ways with phone numbers and decided to meet up for dinner a week later.  Easy enough, right?

The day of date, he suggested Hamburger Hamlet (let it be known- this restaurant was AWESOME…. in 1972.  It was a celebrity hot spot, dark and intimate, couldn’t get a table for hours.  This place is now an elderly melting pot, tables always available, a sad old hostess and a menu full of tasteless “creations” with a Rockefeller like price tag.) I cringed inside and thought to myself, “with all the awesome restaurants in Los Angeles, of all places to ever choose, of any restaurant that serves to the under 80 crowd, WHY THIS PLACE?”  It wasn’t fair to judge, so I kept my first instinct quiet and decided to make the best of the decision and show up. 

I got to the restaurant and sat down at the bar about 10 minutes before anticipated date and ordered a Jack and Coke.  As I’m waking my senses with whiskey, and realizing my date is now 10 minutes late, in walks M (that’s what we’re calling him. Just go with it.), wearing a zip up hoodie, jeans, sneakers, and with ear buds still in ear, because who could stand to walk in to a restaurant without music, right?  Kill me.

We say hi, give an awkward hello hug and he comments, “Oh, you’ve already started?” 

Well OF COURSE I’ve already started drinking.  I hope my eyes didn’t roll back too far into my head when making eye contact, because I promise they would have if I were fully sober.

“Excuse me, bartender? Can I get a screwdriver?” –M

A Screwdriver. Really. A. Screw. Driver.  A screwdriver? Are your parents in Laughlin for the weekend? Are we in your mom’s garage playing beerpong and listening to Blink182? Is this your first time consuming alcohol? Honestly, think of the last time you ordered a screwdriver from a bartender, waiter, hostess, whomever.  I’m sure it won’t take too long for you to think about because you NEVER HAVE.  Screwdrivers are for children who don’t drink.  Screwdrivers are in lieu of Mimosa availability. 

Sigh. Just go with it Tracy, just fucking go with it.

We get a table and start trying to form a conversation, but I’ve never sat next to a man who’s ordered a screwdriver, so I’m a little off myself.  The waiter comes by and asks if we need more drinks and I order another Jack and Coke and M orders a Corona.  Yes, a Corona.  Because, what better beer would you want to quench your thirst while sitting at a restaurant that charges $50 a person minimum. I was under the impression that Corona’s were reserved as a “pool” beer, a “beach” beer, maybe an “on sale at a great price” beer, but never have I thought Corona’s were an “order at a restaurant” beer.  Maybe it’s just me.

After being informed of M’s lack of interest in shell fish because it “tastes weird”, we are ready to order.  As a connoisseur of the soup, I ordered the lobster bisque with a half chicken sandwich.  Probably not my best order, and damn those garlic fries looked good, but I was on a date.  One must be aware on a date. 

“I’ll have the 12oz angus rib eye.” –M

“How would you like that prepared?” -waiter

“Well done, of course.” –M

woah.

Excuse me.  I said excuse me.  Are you joking?  Are you fucking kidding me right now, sir? Did you honestly just order a well done steak, and then further emphasize how well done you enjoy your steak with an “of course”?! Of course you enjoy the taste of footwear for dinner?  Of course you’re cooking off a campfire in Uganda?

The waiter awkwardly walks away, and M goes right back in to full conversation.

“WOAAAAHHHH woah woah woah.  Hold on a second.  We need to assess something here.  You’re from Chicago and you just ordered a well done steak?” –me

“Ya, I don’t really like raw meat.” –M

“Oh of course, I mean, who eats raw meat.?  But a well done steak?  You should have just ordered a hamburger, or we could have gone to 7-11 and gotten you some beef jerky.  Medium? Medium rare? Both non-raw options that give you full flavor of the steak.  That just seems like such a waste of perfectly wonderful meat.” –me

“It’s just how I’ve always had it.  That’s not going to change.” –M

“Well ok, I uhhmm, I have to go to the bathroom……” –me

I take out my phone and text Courtney- “he ordered a well done steak.”

“I’ll call you in 5. Get out of there immediately.”

And I did.  I pulled the “my friend needs me and I have to go” card.  Of course I felt guilty, but I couldn’t sit with this man and watch him attempt to cut that poor piece of meat, knife grinding into the gristled, tasteless product.

Maybe I’m that girl.  Maybe all I could think of was introducing this specimen to my father at a dinner table and he orders a well done steak, with repercussions of us both getting verbally berated by the man for wasting meat, money, and time.  Maybe this makes me sound like the biggest bitch of the west coast, but what else would I discover from a man who orders….screwdrivers…and eats leather? I’m just not willing to take that chance. I may be single, but I’m not desperate.  

So yes, justthetip, just for a second, just to see how it feels.

Advertisements
Duke:  So I’m not going to dwell on this subject, because it was such a major disappointment to us all… but by now you know, The Rapture didn’t happen.  Or, according to good old Grandpa Harold, it happened – just not in the fire and brimstone and earthquakes and “form a single file line so you can be judged by the Great Scorer” kind of way.  However, the world is still going to end on October 21st, so don’t worry about picking a Halloween costume for the masquerade ball (you were going to dress like a slut with ears anyway).  Moving on…
 
Tracy:  HALT!  I am not merely “moving on” from this subject.  This isn’t a subject you can just throw away like a used paper towel or cover up like a drug run gone poorly.  Harold Camping negatively affected my life.  Do you realize how many flash mobs I created in Las Vegas last weekend, having to define and defend the Rapture?  Do you know how many people deemed me downright psycho, on the Las Vegas strip of all places?  Do you realize the extent of the conversation I had with my slightly too religious mother (I worship her, I swear I do.  More often than not, her purity is almost angelic and I question exiting her womb on a daily basis.  It’s just that- my mom is perfect.)  Harold Camping is not getting away with this by merely suggesting a new date.  I will not be duped into believing or accepting his apology.  I want an explanation.  I want an explanation now.
 
Duke:  ok ok ok ok ok.  ok.  alright.  okay.  You want an explanation – theatrics were expected, messiahs were promised, and like a little Jewish boy on Christmas, you were left with nothing but pencils and dress socks – I understand.  Think of all the schmucks who actually spent their retirement funds helping this old kook spread his message with billboards and pamphlets.  People moved entire families across the country so they could be closer to their leader (and have 3 extra hours of prayer before getting Raptor’d).  I personally spent a total of 5 work hours contemplating my impending doom, so let me know if there’s a class action suit we can get in on.  Anyway, as was expected, Mr. Camping was nowhere to be found Monday morning, May 23rd.  He took his time preparing his message, coming into the Family Radio station late that evening to deliver a somber statement.  And when he finally spoke to his congregation, via mass broadcast, he claimed that The Rapture actually had occurred.  But, it was a “spiritual” rapture (whatever the hell that means), and the world will still meet its demise on October 21st, as originally planned – without a doubt, you can bet your sweet asses.  Then, sounds of rustling could be heard from inside the studio, followed shortly by the cocking of a handgun, and the firing of a single shot… 
 
Have we beaten that dead horse into glue yet?  Now to move onto a much more spiritually pertinent topic – the stupidity of men in today’s advertisements.  Just to give you a little background, originally Tracy and I were going to continue on our noble journey through bad taste and shamelessly offensive entertainment by blogging to you (together) about a new idea for a holiday – National Slut Day (her idea, not mine) – live from our favorite dive bar / restaurant.  We had our laptops set up, munchies on the table, ideas flowing between bites… But, around the 4th round of Jack ‘n Cokes our focus began to waver… and around the 7th, I spilled our food (including assorted sauces and condiments) all over some poor Asian tourists who were just trying to discover hush puppies and root for the Miami Heat in peace (serves them right, that team is an abomination; Lebron should be tarred and feathered just for starting the “I’m taking my talents to,” cliche) but I digress…   
 
I’m a forward thinking, progressive type of individual.  I understand the struggle, ladies.  You want to be seen as equals – professionally, intellectually, spiritually.  It’s hard being labelled as sex objects, and seeing gorgeous bombshells on television and in magazines to whom you feel compared.  But can we just be real for a minute?  I’d rather be stereotyped as the object of everyone’s lust and affection, than as some idiotic oaf who is incapable of ordering a beer, remembering an anniversary, purchasing groceries, booking a hotel room, grilling a burger without setting the house aflame, or managing a fucking bank account on my own. 
 
No, you’re right.  I know, girls… I know.  Men are stupid.  We’re complete fools who would walk around drooling and mumbling to ourselves if it weren’t for you holding the whole of everything together.  Praise be to you all.  Sarcasm aside, I love women, you mean the world to me – genuinely.  You really do put up with a hell of a lot (but we’ll save that for another time, so don’t get all worked up on me).  All I’m asking is, how am I – as a man – supposed to be convinced to purchase a product or service from a company who has the audacity to call me a moron on national television? 
 
I’ll start with the biggest culprit and main offender, breweries.  Before our night deteriorated into a haze of uncontrollable laughter, the last commercial I remember clearly from Thursday’s Bulls-Heat game involved a young man calling his amazingly beautiful girlfriend (that’s another thing, they pair these goofballs up with smoking hot model types, like this jackass could ever gain so much as an acknowledgement from a girl like that)  to tell her that he won’t be able to join her for dinner because he has the bar exam.  We’ve all seen this commercial, yes?  Cut to the shot of a bartender holding a bottle going “Alright, are you ready for your bar exam?  Here we go… the first bar means what?!”  Sigh… the first bar under the beer label reads, in white font set upon a blue background,  “Cold.”  You with me?  This is now a literacy test.  Thankfully, our lovable simpleton gets the answer right.  Now onto the next question, barkeep!  “The second bar means…”  to which Shit For Brains replies, “The Coors Light is SUPER cold?!”  …Congratulations, you just ensured I will never buy Coors Light – ever.  It’s bad enough these advertisers think we’re so hapless that we can’t tell if a beer is cold simply by picking it up, they’re actually making it the selling point of the product.  I mean shit, you ever seen a commercial for a tampon that tells you when it’s time to put in a new one?  “Hey Teresa, what’s that dinging sound?”  Teresa answers, “Oh honey, that means I’ll be right back…”
 
Budweiser had one a while back where a man comes home from a long day of work to find rose pedals strewn about his apartment, candles lit, and bud light in his fridge with a sweet note from his girlfriend telling him to come find her in the bedroom (where she’s waiting in his favorite lingerie).  Instead this meat head says “ooo beer!” and takes his Bud over to the couch where he just sits and drinks by himself.  Then it ends with him looking at one of the candles and saying “that’s a fire hazard” and putting it out with the bottom of his bottle.  Seriously, bro?  Yeah, little known fact – men like beer more than we like sex.  Right, and we secretly love soap operas and prostate exams too.  What if they did a reverse of that and a pretty girl came home to find her place all romantic-like, and on the coffee table was a box with the most to-die-for pair of shoes, a sweet note saying “I’m in the bed, come find me” and instead of going in, she just stood in front of the mirror checking out the shoes on her feet?  Well that would be pretty realistic, so probably a bad hypothetical…
 
I could make this whole post about beer commercials, but that wouldn’t give you the full picture of how stupid advertisement agencies think men are.  This one’s taking it back a few years, but before Carl’s Jr. started putting scantily clad Paris Hilton on top of a Bentley eating a burger (which I’m sure she threw up afterward) – they had that slogan “…without us, some guys would starve.”  I’ll give you two quick examples, because they’re just so amazingly baffling.  The first one shows a grown man wandering up and down the isles of a grocery store staring blankly at all the products he clearly wouldn’t be able to turn into food sustenance.  It ends with him in the meat section, looking down at a package of ground beef and poking at it with his finger.  The voiceover goes “without us, some guys would starve.”  Look, cooking isn’t easy – I went to college for long enough to burn a few meals myself.  But we’re talking about burgers here, folks.  70% lean ground beef (you want a little fat to burn up in the fire and leave the meat still juicy), mix in some salt, pepper, grated onions, a little turmeric (or whatever secret ingredient you prefer), shape em into patties and toss em on the grill.  It’s the easiest god damn thing in the world to cook – along side eggs, pasta, hot dogs, and sandwiches.  Gentlemen, if you can make these 5 dishes, you will never starve – and they are nearly impossible to fuck up. 
 
They had a similar commercial from that same time frame, the whole thing consists of a guy dropping an unpeeled, unpitted avocado into a blender – and turning it on.  Obviously this is a commercial for a guacamole burger, fellas – and the implication is that we’re too stupid to somehow access the innards of an avocado, mash them up, and mix in some peppers, onions, cilantro and salt (also on the list of easiest fucking dishes in the world to make).  It’s too bad Carl’s doesn’t sell soup, because I would have loved to see a guy put an unopened can of Campbell’s minestrone in the microwave and watch it explode, “without us, some guys would need fire and casualty insurance.”
 
Maybe I’m wrong.  Maybe most of the men in the world really are that soft headed.  Are there guys who get an awesome haircut and decide it’s a good idea to bet their life savings on 33 black?  Do some husbands need high definition photos of produce from their Nikon 3500, printed on super quality magazine paper in order to know what to buy from Ralph’s?  Can we not decide how much to put aside each month in our alternate savings account so we can save up to restore Dad’s old motorcycle without someone holding our hand?  I mean, you can’t officially be considered a man until you’ve forgotten your wife’s birthday – and you will need a phone that can simultaneously talk and work the internet so you can lie while covering up the tracks of your douchebaggery to avoid sleeping in the dog house for a week.  “Oh you thought I was taking you to a fancy restaurant, Sweetheart?  Baby, when I said steak dinner I meant the new steak sandwich over at Sonic!  Glad you wore that sexy little dress though, we’ll skip the drive-thru and order inside this time so everyone can see how good you look.  Let them know it’s our anniversary.  Go on, super size it, nothing is too good for you, Sugar.  I’ll even buy you an ice cream flurry for dessert.”  Christ, men are worthless.  I don’t know how they even get us to wear pants outside the house.  We would lose our car keys in our own pocket if it wasn’t for that jangling sound reminding us they’re there. 
 
In parting – yes, girls, it is sexist to only highlight your looks in advertisements.  But as often as you see women marketed as pure sex, they’re never shown to be complete idiots.  Men on the other hand are trashed on by the very corporations seeking our business… and somehow, they get our business!  Here’s a new idea for men’s shoes… they’re just normal shoes… BUT, they have pictures on the toes showing you how to tie your laces, just in case you forget.  Loop, swoop, and pull.
 
 
I hope you men out there were able to find a woman to read this to you.  Are you ready for your bar exam?
 
———-this bar means the post is over———-

Archived

Enter your email address to be notified of all things HTG!

Advertisements