23 September, 2010

Eight Easy Steps to Dating Bliss.

So last Sunday night I went to see some fabulous impro and, as fate would have it, was called up on stage to assess the charm quotient of the performers in a mock dating scene (can you imagine?).  Anyway, it occurred to me, that some of you fellas could use a few pointers.  And rather than bitching about you week after week, I should make an effort to actually give you a helping hand.  So here's my top eight dating tips in no specific order.
  • If you're the sort of fellow who can't take his eyes off the television, then don't go to a bar that has one. 
  • Clean your teeth.  No-one wants to kiss a mouth reminiscent of the reeking depths of Satan's anus.
  • Don't pretend to know something you don't.  For example, don't say "Oh, I'm really into evolution." Because a smart, sciency type of girl might come along and say "Really?  Me too!  What aspect of evolution particularly interests you."  And when you say "Err, I just like how some animals are a bit like other animals,"  you will look like a douche.
  • In addition to the point above, when you are busted not knowing something, and your date says "you don't know anything about evolution, do you?"  Don't try to defend yourself and bravely guts it out pretending you do.  Especially if your idea of natural selection is letting the waiter choose the wine.
  • Try very very hard not to stare at your date's breasts.  I know they're more hypnotic than a one-point grand final, and it's hardwired into you to ogle them.  Just don't, okay?
  • If you're at dinner, eat with your mouth closed.  Nothing makes a girl think "No Fucking Way" like watching your half-masticated parmigiana rolling around your mouth, spraying lightly across the table while you regale her with a tale of how awesome you are.
  • Don't get shitfaced.  Once again.  Don't get shitfaced.  Don't get so drunk you fall off your chair backwards (see The Dirty Liar), or leer at your date and tell her you want to fuck her (see The Bad Kisser), or totter head first into the microphone stand (okay, that was a chick, but see Girls Night Out). Peaking early is not cool.
  • Try to look nice.  We're not talking about dressing up like Bonny Prince William on his way to Ascot.  Just try not to look like the kind of guy who fossicks about in garbage bins for cigarette butts.  And wear shoes. 

16 September, 2010

Email-o-riffic!

This is a true story.  Only my name has been changed to Barbara to protect my innocence.  Ahem.  This bloke blew ten smackers to send me this drivel.  Incredible.

From:       Mark
To:             Me
Time:        22:18 AEST
Subject:    whipcrack

HI,there, girl, You don't mess about do you,straight to the cyanoacrylate/anaerobic point with your profile,if i have to explain anything about that then,well ,doesn't matter or make much sense anyway,f'ing super glue,from what i hear.what i will do is comment on your're/your/ youse profile, it's good,i like it,girls who go for long walks in the rain are usually not walking but escaping from jail,and Poppy's are more likely to be on there mind,good to see your not' special' [ie spastic] horoscopes are for'special' individuals.i like science   mags,like penthouse and playboy,they are more directed to pictures rather than science stuff though.i love open fires[set the next door neighbor's shed ablaze last month],fire brigade came,bastard deserved it.he was bbq ing fish,and then i broke out my 2400 watt bosch hammer drill and gouged out his stupid eye balls. hey im just mucking around a bit here ,allthough some of it's true..possibly why  not e-mail me to find out.. Mark
--------------------------

From:       Me
To:             Mark
Time:        22:33 AEST
Subject:    Prose


Hello Mark,

It took me a while to work out precisely what the fuck you were saying.  Here's what'd be great: capital letters and punctuation used appropriately, spelling checked a wee bit, not a lot, but just a wee bit.  Spaces after commas.  Good lord, I beg you, put a space after the comma.  Oh, paragraphs.  That'd be delightful.

Having said that, references to semi-porn mags probably isn't a good way to get in the good books of a sciency feminist type like me.  So let's just leave it there.
Cheers,

Barbara
--------------------------


And that, my darlings, is where the conversation ends.  I just didn't have the energy to decipher his bollocks.

See what I'm dealing with here?  Torture!  Oh, do you want to see a picture?  Of course you do! Knock yourself out.  Notice the gormless look, the open mouth.  The general air of cluelessness.  Sigh.


06 September, 2010

Girls' Night Out.

So last weekend I went out with a top notch chick mate of mine, Stella. Stella is fabulous for many reasons, not least of which is that she is a genuine, one hundred percent, bona fide Rock Chick. Complete with electic guitar and band. Awesome doesn't quite cover it.


Anyway, we thought we'd head out for a Big Night, and big it was. There were many glorious adventures - the man with the loaf of bread ("oh lord, I think I'm in loaf!" "I bet he's got a ton of dough" - we cracked ourselves up), the guy that was 6'11" and the funky bass player in the giant rabbit suit. Tequila shooters and a rockin' band (Vaudeville Smash is their name - recommended). But the highlight of my evening was "Sequins".

Sequins was an example of what not to do on a night out with your girlfriends. Tall, willowy, young and blonde, she wore a sweet little shift dress covered in...you got it.  She was also staggeringly drunk.  Oh the joy!

So just before the band started, she decided to chat up the lead singer.  She stood, swaying gently, playing with her skirt and trying to effect a sexy girl pose while maintaining her balance on tottering heels.  Turning to return to her couch, she lost the battle and toppled head first into the microphone stand, and an amplifier in a tangle of arms and legs on the floor.

Hilarious.

Her pals all ran to help her to her feet, and assisted her back to the couch, where she lay for perhaps a half hour.  Then she thought she'd have a dance.  The suspense was marvellous!  Watching her lurch about like Frankenstein's monster with her tiny black purse dangling from her shoulder, looking like a scrotum growing from her armpit.  Wondering if at any moment she'd pitch head first into one of the precariously perched dancers on the arms of the couch, or make it safely back onto her arse. 

Eventually, she settled again, and at last sight was texting on her phone oblivious to the fact that her dress had ridden up around her waist, and we all had a glorious view of the gusset of her tights.  Never a good look at the best of times.  Probably blew her chances with the lead singer too.  I wish I'd got a look at what she was texting.  Some hapless ex-boyfriend getting an earful no doubt.

Anyway, it was a valuable lesson in how to be a lady.  I wonder if she spent half the next day pondering why she didn't pick up.