25 May, 2011

Dinner with Ted Bundy anyone?


On Friday, I got this email from I guy I don't know.  There was no preamble, no witty banter, just this:


"Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?"

No name, one picture that was kind of obscured.  I confess, I thought about it, because writing funny things for imaginary readers makes me take crazy risks sometimes, but then I shook myself out of it, and once again wondered how this blog can make me do stuff that could be injurious to my health.  I didn't answer. 

About an hour and a half later, this arrived: 

"Hi :) would you mind replying to my earlier message? Sorry it's brief, I'm busy at work. I'll make good company, just think it would be a fun evening."


Oh, I'm sorry.  You're busy at work, but I'm just lounging about on the couch eating bon bons, watching re-runs of I love Lucy and designing clothes for monkeys in my imagination.  Note there is still no name, no number, no identifiers of any kind.  This is how girls end up in plastic bags by the side of the road near a state forest.  What's more everyone thinks they're "good company"  even those people who are decidedly "bad company".


This time I responded, with:

"I'm sorry dude.  I didn't realise you were serious.  I have plans tonight."

Undaunted, mystery man fired this off:

"Fair enough, can I book you in for another evening, maybe this weekend"

Not even a full stop.  Book me in?  Try calling one of these girls instead.

It was time to put a stop to these shenanigans.  This is what I wrote.

"Er, no.

"I'm sorry, but I know nothing about you at all. And I make a point of not going on dates with men who don't have a photo up where I can see their teeth."

See, I'm learning.  No more guys with bad teeth for me.  He shot off one last salvo:

"I see. Thanks for being honest and for replying. I'll work on both as they are simple to do. Have a good weekend. It was an impetuous idea no harm done I think."

Well, not unless you trawl the internet for blogs written by disillusioned single forty-something women.  I didn't respond, and I haven't heard back.  Although it'll be interesting to see if he puts up a picture with teeth in it.   Actually, it'd be great if he put one in of just his teeth with no face attached.  Although, if they were all lying bloody on a handkerchief, how could I be sure they were his?  And not his last dinner date's?


Give us a kiss, love.

18 May, 2011

Another office nuisance

So there’s a new contractor who’s sitting next to me in the office, and he shooting his mouth off, and trying to get a rise out of me (if you’re on Facebook, and you’ve “liked” this page, you’d know that.  See, just click that little “like” button on the right there). He's constantly making stupid fucking jokes that are neither clever nor funny.  He thinks, I’m sure, that it makes him charming, when in fact, it is the office equivalent of pulling my pigtails in class.
Anyway, in a desperate and rather vain effort to avoid his rage-inducing nitpickery, I’ve been forced to adopt a number of strategies.  One is to put my headphones on and pretend I can’t hear him.  But he's started to rudely interrupt my podcast, in order to tell me that he reckons I'd be a "plate thrower" in an argument (I swear, he's going to end up with a plate lodged in his pelvis if he's not fucking careful), or to observe that I've either put my jacket on, or taken it off.  So I've taken to typing furiously and staring at my computer screen, like I'm working on something Very Important, which requires Intense Concentration.  A great strategy, particularly if combined with the headphones, but I'd run out of writing work.  So I had to make something up.  And look very fucking serious about it.
I should add, that I don't think he's having a crack, he's just trying to ingratiate himself by taking the piss.  Problem is, he doesn't know me well enough to be able to do that yet.  Cocky fucker.
Here, my lovelies, is what I wrote Monday afternoon, at 4.40pm, to avoid having to talk to the Very Annoying Office Nuisance - unedited and as it happened. Warning! This contains some very coarse language.  Very. Like c-bomb very.

Just have to write something so that I can look like I’m concentrating so the douchebag won’t say anything to me.  I think I’ll keep this file going so that whenever he looks up to say something inane, I can look like I’m really focussed on what I’m writing.  What a dickwad.  Seriously.
Two minutes later.
So here I go again, because I can see in my peripheral vision that he’s looking at me, and about to make a comment on the chips I’m eating.  I don’t know what it’ll be, but it’ll almost certainly be something irritating, like – “oh, you like chicken chips do you?” or “you shouldn’t eat those, you’ll get fat.” Or something equally ghastly.  Maybe he’ll chastise me for not offering him one.
Okay, five minutes later.
It annoys the shit out of me that I can’t do ANYTHING sitting here without some stupid comment.  Or otherwise he talks out loud about stuff, like “I need to call Myki today”.  Like I give a shit.  Call them douchebag, and don’t tell me about it. He made me take my earbuds out so he could tell me that.  Un-fucken-believable.  Did I mention that he eats with his mouth open, shovelling food in and chewing noisily.  I think I may have to kill him. Slowly.  With a potato peeler and a bag of salt.
This morning, he banged on for twenty minutes about why cats suck and dogs rock.  Of course, he doesn’t know that I lost my beloved puss two weeks ago.  I think if he makes another comment in that direction, I’ll tell him about my sweet girl, and that he can fuck off.  That ought to shut him up for an hour or so.
Three minutes later.
I knew it.  I knew he couldn’t keep his fucking mouth shut.  He’s been looking over here every few seconds to see if my concentration has broken, and the second it did, he said “So tell me about yourself – what do you do for fun?”  What the fuck do I say to that?  Well, I write a website about fucktards.  You’re going to be on it, because you shit me to tears.  Instead I said “what?” with as withering a look as I could manage (which is pretty withering), then ignored him and started typing this paragraph.
Which is now finished.  Fuck.  I need to think of something to write…think!  Think girl!
Oh, I know! Today, he passed me on the street with another one of the contractors.  The nice contractor said “hey!” as we passed, and the douchebag, by way of trying to be funny coughed in my face.  Disgusting.
And he listened into a phone call I had where I said something like “are you going to have a boys’ lunch? Because I can’t come to a boys’ lunch, and I want to be there.” After the call ended he said “if you want to go to a boys’ lunch, you should dress up like the guys in Monty Python.”  Please, I beg you, put a bullet in my head.
Oh, another one.  So somehow we got onto the topic of fish.  I never eat fish. I just don’t like it*.  Anyway, he told me that:
  1. I'm stupid and missing out because fish is delicious**
  2. He was going out to lunch and was going to buy fish because he knew how much I “appreciate it”.  Fucking cunt.
  3. Next time we’re in a meeting (which we haven’t been yet), and he wanted his way, he was going to bring two trouts in his back pockets and threaten me with them.  As he said it, he thrust imaginary trout at me to demonstrate. 
Oh, and he keeps all the soft drink cans when he's finished, and piles them up on his desk in a tower.  He said he does that because "all creative people do something quirky".  I said, "what, like stacking up piles of trash on their desks? Just put them in the fucking recycling dude."  But there they stand, teetering and sticky.  Utterly repellant.  And you know, sometimes creative people are quirky.  But they don't do it deliberately.  That's not quirky, that's pretentious, douchebag.

Anyway, he’s packing up his stuff now, so I’ll wait ten minutes before I leave the office – even though I’ll miss my train, because I’d rather miss my train than ride the lift downstairs with him.

Don't even think about putting me in your pocket, arsehole.

*I once famously threw up on the street in Paris when I walked past a fish shop.  They'd just hosed it out, and there were guts all over the pavement.  Which were soon joined by my lunch.

**No, it's not.  It's fucking disgusting.

11 May, 2011

The Cult Leader

Okay, so he wasn't actually a cult leader, but as sure as Charlie Manson is a mad bastard, he could have been.

To be honest, I don’t even know where to start, except to say it was utterly bizarre from start to inevitable finish. But I’ll take a big swig of shiraz, and have a crack my lovelings.

It began with an email on the site I’m on. This fellow was pleasant looking, and seemed quite literate, which was nice. He wanted to know how serious I was about my atheism, and what I meant by it.

This is when it started to go off the rails. These things always start out as just a little odd, and before you know it, ten kinds of crazy are crashing down all around you.

So he’s got this “philosophy” which he vehemently believes. In his words, it is this. "Based on my experience, it's my current understanding that we're like little radio beacons, sending and receiving energy. So, if I have a thought about you, it connects to you." In addition, "everybody has it, some people are more naturally open, but everyone can train themselves to be more aware." Sounds alarming like the appalling Celestine Prophesy to me (which is, by the way, is the worst written book of all time). I started getting a bit edgy. Especially when he said "It all makes sense - and, without wanting to sound too up myself - has the definite possibility of radically improving your life - but it takes time to get through it all."  Clock's ticking dickwad.

"Look into my eyes, not around my eyes, but into my eyes."
Good grief, just hand me the fucking kool-aid already.
One night, we engaged in a bit of IM.  That's when he dropped this clanger into my lap:

“I know that you and I will have great sex, because after I emailed you last night, I had an erection that lasted two hours.”

Well excuse the shit out of me, but that's just a little presumptious, don't you think?  I responded with this:

"Easy tiger!  See this from my end. A guy tells me he's looked at my pictures, spent an hour writing me an email, then gets a boner. I mean really." 

A string of exposition followed - including an explanation of why he flirts, how he flirts, and what it means; as well as a comment that I'm clearly jaded, and he feels like he's "wading through the prior sins of every other bozo on the internet".  Me?  Jaded?  Surely not!

Oh, but it gets better, because he also sent me a list of questions, ranging from "Do you like hugs and affection?" to "How often do you masturbate?" I beg your pardon?  How often do I what?

Needless to say I've shut off his vibe.  As far as I'm concerned, he can take his energy beacons elsewhere, and fuck off while he's at it.  Douche.

04 May, 2011

God botherers

There seems to be an awful lot of religious bollocks flying around right now.  I mean, on one hand you've got christians shouting "burn in hell Bin Laden!" and on the other you've got extremist muslims shouting "enjoy your 72 virgins, matyr!"  You know I'm pretty into the science thing.  So it seems as good a time as any to declare that I am both:

a) an atheist, and
b) frustrated by religious wankers.

So this dating website I'm on is kinda neat.  You answer tons of questions, and it rates you against potential suitors for compatibility.  Now, it's got various categories, and amongst them, are religion, ethics, and other cool stuff like that.

There's a pervasive theme I've noticed.

Religious people are stupid.

I'm talking about your bona fide hard-worshippin', bible-thumpin' born-agains.  I had one recently, that epitomises the genre.  Here's some of the questions, and here's how he answered.  Let's, for argument's sake, call him Judas.

"Is the earth bigger than the sun?"

Me:  No.
Judas:  Yes.

Also, the earth is the centre of the universe, and cavemen ran around with dinosaurs, just like in The Flintstones.  Got a headache?  Here! Try these leeches!

"Are clams alive?"

Me:  Yes, obviously.
Judas:  No.

How do you figure clams aren't alive?  What are they, rocks?

"Is contraception morally wrong?"

Me:  No
Judas:  Yes, always.

Nothing says douchebag like a man who won't put a raincoat on it.  After all kids, we all know that condoms aren't just about stopping us ladies getting knocked up, they can protect us from a whole host of nasties.  Unfortunately, it appears they can't protect us from fucktards.



Give me your money!  Go on, you can trust me!

Now Judas was very persistant.  Even when I told him I was a bleeding heart liberal, who lived on the other side of the planet, and I thought his view of the world was misogynist, medieval, and blood-boilingly selfish. He was the one, in fact, who insisted that I should continue to correspond with him because he found me attractive.  Obviously, my thoughts on the matter were of no importance.  Douche.

Now I'm not against religion, per se. To quote Ghandi (via my hero, Ricky Gervais) "I like your Christ, I just don't like your christians.  Your christians are so unlike your Christ".

Now before all you fundamentalists get all angry and uppity, let me say this:  I uphold the ethics of most religions. I give to charity.  I believe that forgiveness is better than vengeance, and I treat other people as I'd like to be treated.  So fuck off.