The Hot Wife/Fat Guy Conundrum

I was reading an article today about how romance novels give women unreasonable expectations, ruin marriages, cause baby cancer, etc. Of course, this article was written by a man. Most likely a 42 year old virgin who lives in his mom’s basement. However, I can’t say I entirely disagree with him

My main point of contention comes from the fact that there is a concern far more pressing that needs to be addressed. It is far more prevalent and way more damaging. I call it the hot wife/fat guy sitcom.

So I’ve never seen this episode, but I can only assume she’s saying “What the fuck do you mean you work at UPS! You told me you invented the I Phone!”

We’ve seen the same familiar pairing over the years. Mr Huckstable and his way too fine for him wife, Clair. Ralph and Alice on “The Honeymooners”, Aunt Viv and Uncle Phil on “Fresh Prince”. Hell, even cartoons pull that shit, with Wilma and Fred on “The Flinstones” to Homer and Marge on “The Simpsons”.

Over and over again, we’re met with the premise that women, rather than men, are capable of looking inside someone to see their inner beauty. They fall in love with these guys for their personalities, not their looks and money.

Wanna hear a secret? Women are just as superficial as men. Generally, if you see a couple that looks like Doug and Carrie on “King of Queens”, you can be sure of at least one of three things.

  1. He’s rich
  2. He’s extremely rich
  3. He is really a wonderful person, with a beautiful soul…and she’s blind…and he’s also rich

Women are somehow held to this higher standard of being blind to looks when it’s just not true. Case in point? Myself.

Back in the days of yore*, I developed a crush on a coworker. Not one of those normal little crushes either. This one was a full on, stalkeresque, googled him regularly, followed his Facebook status praying for a breakup with his girlfriend, crush.

Yeah, I know I’m a psycho.  And if you’re reading this wondering if it was you, rest assured, it wasn’t. This dude didn’t know that I was alive. Why?

Simple. Aesthetic disproportionism…which is a phrase I made up. Simply stated, our attractiveness levels didn’t match. As stated in a previous blog, I am a solid 6 on the 1 to 10 scientific attractiveness grading scale. This guy was about a 37.  So he dated another 37 and I lusted after him from afar.

Then one day I asked myself why I was convinced he was my soulmate. Was it because he was so nice, so smart, so funny? What was so damn special about him? Or was I really so superficial that the only reason I was crazy about him was because he looked like Julian MacMahon?

Oh Julian, even under all this booze and THC, I can still get a lady hard-on for you.

So the next time we talked, I devised a simple test. When he was talking, I closed my eyes. Suddenly, he just became…normal. He wasn’t any different than he had been before. I just had a little much needed perspective.

So maybe the difference between men and women is that I did that at all. That I cared enough over whether I was being superficial to test myself. Maybe it’s not really that all women are beauty blind. Maybe we’re just a little more guilt ridden over the whole thing. Maybe we’re more focused on finding the difference between love and lust.

Or, maybe I’m just a bitch.

 

*before I killed my sex drive with regular substance abuse.


Today Is The Day!

After 2 years of nights spent hunched over my computer, up until 2 in the morning, writing until my fingers cramped, it all comes together. After 24 months of hair pulling frustration, giving up, deleting paragraphs, chapters and pages, it’s finally done.

Charlie Sheen has dropped the restraining order. Guess whose bushes I’ll be in tonight. Winning!

Also, between penning psychotic fan letters to aging celebrities, I wrote a book.

My book, Strangely Sober, is currently on sale for $2.99 on Kindle. However, if that amount would be breaking the bank, I suggest you wait until August 1, 2012, when I will be offering a free download.

Amazon reviews are greatly appreciated…unless you hate it. Then keep your opinion to yourself. Nobody likes a whiner.


An Open Letter To The Westboro Baptist Church

Fuck, are you guys still around? To be entirely honest with you, I’d forgotten until very recently that you existed at all. What can I say, I have a lot of stuff going on.

Then today, I pull up my AOL mail account to learn that you are planning a super picket of the Aurora memorial . What the fuck is a ‘super’ picket anyway? You guys have like 11 members of your church and I’m pretty sure 8 of them are children.  What’s so super about your picket? It can’t be the size of your numbers, because your members always seem to be holding fifteen signs a piece,  so I can only assume it’s the size of your waistlines.

They feed on hatred…and apparently, hatred isn’t available in diet.

I’ve also forgotten what you guys were picketing about again. Sorry. I smoke a lot of pot. Anyhow, I’m assuming it has something to do with wanting to legally be allowed to marry your cousins? Maybe something about blowing lamas? Oh yeah, you hate gay people.

Personally, I give a shit about gay people. What someone wants to do in their bedroom, my bedroom, a hotel bedroom, a public bathroom or a Porta Potty in Borneo is none of my concern. They’re free to make their own decisions and I’m free to not give a shit about those decisions. Here’s a funny thing I’ve noticed about people who are super worried about what other people are doing in their bedrooms; they always seem to be the people no one wants to fuck in the first place.

Ugh, Jesus…not even with a stolen vagina

If you’re concerned about all our salvations, then rest assured, we’re doing just fine. I recently took a poll and apparently 98% of the people I know would prefer an eternity in Hell with a bunch of gays to a week in Heaven with your bigoted judgmental asses. The other 2% was my gimp and he couldn’t vote due to the ball gag I keep in his mouth.

Also, just throwing this out there, but my new novel is very gay friendly, in case you guys want to consider buying a bunch of copies to have a book burning. Of course, it’s only going to be available on Kindle, so you’ll need to buy the Kindles, then download my book onto them, then burn a bunch of Kindles.  I’m really not sure what kind of accelerant is needed to burn a Kindle. I would suggest testing a variety of highly flammable materials first. Preferably in an enclosed space.

What can I say? I’d do anything for a sale.

In closing, I just want to let you know that I agree with you. Well not on any of your philosophies or morals. On all that wakadoo shit, you guys are on your own.  Mainly I agree with you regarding free speech. Yes, in America, there is such a thing as free speech. It is your right as an American to freely share your opinion, but to be entirely honest, I doubt anyone would have paid you for yours in the first place.

Sincerely,

Essa


A Day At The Circus – All Rights Reserved

Yesterday, I took my son to the circus. To avoid any risk of copyright infringement, I will not name the specific circus. Let’s just say it rhymed with “Dickapilly”.

Normally, I’m not so copyright spastic. I either come up with original material or cite the author whose work I’m taking about. But in their case, I’m making an exception. These people were copyright NAZI’S! There were angry men scouring the audience, seeking out anyone with a camera, or cell phone out of their purse, then taking them outside and breaking their kneecaps. The guy sitting next to me told me that when he went to take a dump, a tiny clown popped out of the toilet tank when he was done and stamped his poop with a copyright mark.

I exaggerate of course, but you know what I mean. Listen, Dickapilly circus, I’m not planning on stealing your aerialist act. What’s preventing me from being an aerialist isn’t lack of ideas. It’s the fact that I would be peeing on my own face out of fear while hanging 500 feet upside down in the air. Trust me, your secrets are safe with me.

Also, I still hate clowns. If that makes me a baby, so be it. I’m still not entirely convinced that Stephen King’s ‘It’ wasn’t based on a true story.

What You See

What I See

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As usual, when I do a review of something, it usually turns into a review of the people I was forced to interact with and not the show itself.

First, family sitting behind me; THE WORLD IS NOT YOUR BABYSITTER! It is not ok to allow a group of children, none of them over the age of 5, sit a row away from you while you swill beers and ignore them. This is Florida. We average a kidnapping approximately every three seconds. Try to be a little more vigilant in the future.

Of course I understand that no one on the planet would actually WANT to steal one of your little bastards and if they did, they would return them in about 5 minutes flat. Seriously, I think you actually have to train children to be that annoying.

On the upside, I did treat your four year old daughter a valuable life lesson. That lesson? Just because someone looks normal does not mean that they’re not deep down psychotic. So psychotic in fact, that after the fifth time having their chair kicked, they will turn around and threaten to rip your little angels legs off.

Yeah, I started some shit with a four year old. So sue me.

Next, to the lady who came in at intermission with 37 of your closest friends and family and was upset that you all couldn’t find seats together, try showing up on time next time. Yes, I’m sure it was very distressing that the people at the stadium didn’t reserve three rows for you in open admission seating because you’re so very special. That does not mean that I’m taking the ONE child I brought with me, 15 minutes BEFORE the show began, and moving to obstructed view seating so you can sit with your mother, your cousin, your cousin’s girlfriend, your cousins girlfriends former roommate and whoever else you managed to squeeze into your 87’ Town & Country van. Your angry look means shit to me and I’m pretty sure I can take you in a fight. If you don’t believe me, ask the four year old who was sitting behind me.

As for my favorite part of the day, well, that occurred during Motorcycle Madness, when two men, who had to be on angel dust, drove into a circular cage and performed some stunts that seriously defied gravity. As I was cringing and watching them, I turned to see my son’s reaction and he looked HORRIFIED. Being the fantastic mom that I am, I immediately leaned over to reassure him that they were professionals and were not going to crash. My son, who has the soul of a 90 year old accountant, promptly responded;

“It’s not that mom. I was just wondering what their liability insurance premium must be.”


What Makes You Beautiful

I hate that fucking song. Ha, ha, I bet, judging from the title, you thought this was going to be a blog filled with sappy bullshit. Relax. I don’t do sappy bullshit. It just ain’t my thing.

Why do I hate One Directions “What makes You Beautiful’? Well, despite the catchy tune and my desire to have a five way with the barely legal singing group, I just don’t like the message.

“You don’t know you’re beautiful…that’s what makes you beautiful.”

Ok, so, not to be a femi-nazi, but what I’m hearing is that a woman is most attractive when she has low self esteem. Not cool, One Direction. I may just have to change my mind about our group orgy. Which is your loss because I look fantastic naked.

What’s up with this ridiculous idea that women aren’t allowed to know they’re pretty? Apparently, confidence, even cockiness, about your looks is only ok when you have a penis. I hear men bitch about the question “does this make me look fat?”, then I hear this song. Talk about your mixed messages.

I don’t need a man to validate how attractive I am. If that’s unattractive to a portion of the male population, then my response is a resounding ‘whatever’ and a hefty eye roll. Some asshole trolling for chicks with low self esteem is hardly going to catch my attention anyway. There are a lot of guys who prey on woman with low self esteem. They’re called sex offenders. I think I’ll pass.

Personally, I LOVE the way I look. The other morning, I was putting on my mascara and I got lost in my own eyes. My lips are what white girls are going for when they get collagen injections. My crooked nose tells a kick ass story about a bar fight I got in Germany and is the reason I have an Interpol record. The stretch marks I have are a result of my greatest creation, my son, and my laugh lines prove I have a rocking sense of humor. As far as I’m concerned, I’m the standard. Not Scarlett Johansen, not Angelina Jolie. Me.

The rest of those celebrity bitches just fall short.

So yeah, I know I’m beautiful. If that’s going to be a problem, well, don’t let the door hit you on the way out.


No, You Don’t Have PTSD…You’re Just a Pussy

I am so sick of the Post Traumatic Stress Disorder diagnosis being thrown around that I’m pretty sure it’s giving me Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

In the past, I’ve had people tell me they got  PTSD for everything from breaking up with their boyfriend to their boss being mean to them. I’ve had to listen to overly sensitive whiners drone on and on about the medications they’re taking and their feelings like I’m actually interested in their ‘suffering.’

For future reference, the only two feelings I’m interested in talking about ever,  are anger and orgasms. For everything else, drink your pain away like the rest of us and shut the fuck up. I am not your psychologist.

Post traumatic stress comes from a TRAUMATIC event. No, your three toothed boyfriend’s dumping you for your cousin isn’t traumatic. It’s the premise for a Jerry Springer show.  Trauma comes from a severe, life altering event that most of the general population hasn’t experienced, like being raped or watching your buddy get his legs blown off in Iraq. It does not come from your boss giving you an angry look and calling you a bitch under his breath.

If something like that is so upsetting to you that you need to be on medication, I would suggest you take the whole bottle at once, cause trust me, life only gets worse.

If you’re still not convinced that you don’t have PTSD, I propose a test. Find yourself any 911 Firefighter who watched half his friends die when the towers went down. Now tell him that you think your boss correcting your spelling error in front of the whole department is just as bad as what he went through.

When you wake up from the coma you were in after he punched you in the face, expect me to be standing at the foot of your hospital bed with a sympathy card that says “I told you so”.

Why am I going off on this tangent today? Because I saw a statistic that just plain pissed me off. As of April 2012, one third of the people on social security disability are on it due to mental illness or injury. One of the most commonly claimed mental injuries? You guessed it. PTSD.

My problem with that is that the SSDI fund is expected to be completely depleted by 2016, thanks in part to frivolous claims for PTSD. I really don’t like the idea that some truly mentally injured veteran is going to have his benefits cut off and wind up living on the street, because a bunch of assholes want to file mental claims due to the ‘trauma’ of being involved in a 5 mile an hour car accident. It just ain’t right.

And it ain’t traumatic. You’re just being a pussy


There Is a Difference Between Looking and Leering

And that difference can get you maced.

As part of my ongoing effort to improve the world by telling everyone else what to do, I am going to explain that difference and how to avoid getting sprayed with a corrosive chemical in todays blog.

Many men hear that eye contact is an excellent way to begin a flirtation. Unfortunately, there are far too many who don’t understand the subtle nuances of eye contact and instead wind up looking like crazed rapists. Here are some tips and tricks to help you get started with some serious eye screwing (not to be confused with skull fucking).

First, know where you stand. Head over to your mirror. I’ll wait. Ok, now, on a scale of 1 to 10, grade your appearance.  Have a grade? Good. Shave off three points.

I hate to say it, but I have noticed something that is almost always universally true. Most men seem to think they are much better looking than they are while most women find they are significantly less attractive than they are. I blame the “Hot Wife/Fat Guy” TV show pairing that I will explain in a future blog. Unless you’re suffering from some seriously low self esteem, it’s perfectly natural to think you are more attractive than you are. It’s also going to prevent you from getting laid ever again.

When beginning a flirtation, always choose someone 1 level below your own level of attractiveness.  Also, it is perfectly acceptable to give yourself 2 numbers. One for sober, one for drunk. For instance, I am a sober 6, drunk 7.  Now that you have an honest number, you know who your targets are.Your likelyhood of picking up is significantly increased when your expectations are reasonable.

Next, make eye contact and smile. Save the whole broody, intense look for the guy from Twilight.  He’s the only one who’s got it down. Everyone else who does that just manages to look like a serial killer. If you don’t smile, she’s going to expect an invite into your windowless van. No one says yes to an invite into the windowless van.

Right

Wrong

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Timing is everything. Too short and she won’t notice. Too long and she’s rummaging through her purse for something to defend herself with.  If she’s Columbian, she might take it as a challenge and shank you.  2 to 5 seconds is the most acceptable time period. If you don’t know how to time it, make eye contact, then say the sentence ‘I am not a date rapist’ in your head. Remember, only say it in your head, not out loud.  That sentence is not designed to be an ice breaker, just a timer.

If she’s into you, you’ll get a smile and some eye contact in return. If not, she might look away, but at least you won’t have to take a trip to the hospital for some neutralizing eyewash.


Virgins Are Boring

Like any writer, I am also an avid reader, meaning I like to read about avids. Occasionally, when I run out of books about avids, I switch to something more mainstream.

Like any woman in her thirties who isn’t married to David Beckham, I decided to try out the ’50 Shades of Grey’ series. I made it to the point where I learned the main character was a beautiful 22-year-old virgin before I disdainfully tossed my book out the window.

Then I immediately went to get it because I was reading it on a Kindle and those things are expensive.

Seriously, I am so damn sick of goody-goody, innocent as the driven snow heroines. Reality check people; if a woman is being described to you as a 22-year-old college educated virgin, you may want to have an apple ready for the unicorn she rode in on. Tell the tooth fairy I said hi.

Twenty two year old virgins are not beautiful. In fact, they generally fit into three distinct categories; members of religious cults, mental patients and people who aren’t TV pretty enough to make it on ‘The Price is Right’.

Enough with the innocent virgins. They’re boring. You know who else likes virgins? Al-Qaeda. I make it a point to not agree with them on anything.

I know romance novels have no basis in reality. That’s fine. But can you at least give me someone I can relate to when I’m storing masturbation fodder? Most books either paint the woman as a saint or an uptight shrew.  There’s no good time party girl, unless she’s the kooky best friend who’s always getting into hijinks.  Generally, if the heroine is considered “laid back”, her name is Willow and she makes her own granola.

How about a girl who represents me for a change? A girl who, if you find her working at a soup kitchen on a Saturday, is there because of court ordered community service. A girl who doesn’t believe in reading to the blind, because that’s what Braille and audio books are for. A girl who has had more than the socially acceptable 3 sexual partners. A girl who missed her own Vegas wedding day because she was dropping peyote at Burning Man (sorry Joe).

A girl who writes an entire blog to shamelessly plug her book, Strangely Sober, available on Kindle on August 1, 2012.

See what I did there? That’s called crossed marketing. I learned it in business school for the low, low price of $50k…when I could have just googled it.

Anyway, the reason I wrote my book was because I was tired of those same of perfect, helpless, ‘I love rainbows and unicorns’ leading ladies who always made me feel like an a-hole when I spend all Saturday watching Jersey Shore reruns instead of volunteering at an animal shelter.

If you ask most literary scholars who the best written female character of all time is, they’ll tell you almost without exception, Scarlett O’Hara. For anyone who has ever read ‘Gone With the Wind’, you’ll realise the irony of the statement. She was a massive bitch and (spoiler alert for anyone who’s been in a coma since the 1920’s) she was so incredibly obnoxious that the leading man left her at the end. But I still wanted her to win, because she was a kick-ass chick.

So I decided to make my leading lady evil. I decided to make her a bad person who does a lot of bad things and I am doing it completely unapologetically.

Because that is just the kind of bitch I am.


You Can Not Get Hepatitis From The Toilet Seat

This germaphobia afflicting America is getting out of hand. Today, on my way into the office, I saw a woman press an elevator button with a tissue. Another guy opened the door with his sleeve. Then I went in the bathroom to find that someone had wrapped one of the toilets in so many of those stupid toilet seat covers that I ripped it open excitedly, thinking it was a belated birthday gift.

Boy was I disappointed.

Every day, I see some commercial about how everything is covered in scary neon germs. I hear news stories telling you to wash your hands until they bleed so you don’t get SARS, Bird Flu, Pig Flu, Mad Cow Disease, restless friggen legs syndrome, the list goes on and on and on.

You know what has never, ever happened in the history of time? The below conversation;

Mike: Hey John, did you hear about Nick?
John: No. What happened?
Mike: He died.
John: Holy crap! He was only 24! How did it happen? Car crash? Random act of violence? Tragic, yet slightly hilarious accident?
Mike: He touched a door knob…WITH HIS BARE HAND!
John: (Shaking his head sadly) He always was one crazy son of a bitch.

Let’s just clear this up. As I once told my ex boyfriend…YOU CAN NOT GET HEPATITIS FROM THE TOILET SEAT. Well, unless you have sex with the toilet seat. But if you’re doing that, you’ve probably got bigger problems than hepatitis.

These scary, scary germs are not as bad as we are making them out to be. So I get the common cold, the flu, whatever. You know what happens? My ninja, kick ass immune system takes those little buggers out with extreme prejudice.

You know why my immune system is the white cell equivalent of Rambo? Because I treat my body like a temple. And by ‘temple’, I mean one of those drunken orgy bath houses in ancient Rome. My little assassin cells travel through my body getting lots of practice beating up viruses and because of that, they knock them out in record time.

Need proof? A few years back, I got an actual serious, death is more than a .0001% possibility, illness. I got tuberculosis. The story of how I got it is too long to tell in this blog, but it mainly involved a Croatian national and a bag of what turned out not to be cheese doodles.

Anyway, there I am, locked up in a very loose quarantine system, getting tested every few days, and after about a week, the nodules disappeared from my lungs. How? Simple. Whiskey Sours and Newports. Once I thought I was dying, I went into panic mode and drank and smoked like zombie apocalypse was coming. My immune system then realized I was going to be no help whatsoever. So it got its ass in gear, kicked that tuberculosis right out of there and I went on to fight another day.

Lesson learned. I won’t let my system turn into the sickly, pasty white equivalent of a bubble boy. I’m teaching it how to fend for itself, like a tough inner city kid with an absentee father and an alcoholic mother. It can take care of itself. I don’t need to smear myself in hand sanitizer, bleach my can opener, dry clean my dog and cut off my hands.

In fact, just to prove my point, tomorrow when that woman gets into the elevator with me, I’m pressing the button to the 6th floor with my tongue.


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