Wednesday, September 28, 2011

R.I.P. Arch West: Inventor of Doritos

The last bag of Doritos I ate before the death of Arch West were the best I’ve ever tasted. We were up in the mountains, me and my fake girlfriend. Smoggy and hot in the city but up in the Sierras it was cool, clear day, and we stopped at the Native American Cultural Center to check out some artifacts—longbows and shit made from pelts. It was a welcome relief from a tough week, and the two stoned Mexican guys running the federally funded shack and posing as Native Americans had a cooler of soda and basket of various chips for sale. We chose original flavor Doritos and a Coke. The classic American snack.

Something about the mountain air, the rigors of the wilderness; something about the long grueling week-- the experience of eating those fucking Doritos was magnified. I could taste freshly harvested corn pulled from a heartland field in the dawn. Chilis hand dried in an adobe marketplace by a Toltec woman with hard, withered fingers. Salt delicately culled from the nurturing bosom of the sea. These Doritos tasted like life, seriously.

It brought to mind how about every three months for the past several years I've thought, apropos of nothing: who is the guy who invented Doritos? This man will get no Nobel Prize, but what he gave the world brought more joy than virtually anybody. In retrospect, I might have known that the universe was giving me a chance to truly taste the man's masterpiece before he passed to the great beyond.

Arch West, the inventor of Doritos, died last Tuesday at the age of 97. West was a marketing exec for Frito Corp. (soon to become Frito–Lay after a merger), and on a trip to California, sampled some tortilla chips for the first time from a snack stand by the beach. This was in the sixties. Mind you, tortilla chips themselves hadn’t been invented until 1944, so, the idea hadn’t really spread around, and West, according to lore, instantly knew he was onto something. He took his idea of a spicy version of the crisp fried corn chips to the higher ups at Frito Corp, and they laughed at him. They laughed.

So West invested some of his own money into developing the chip, presumably bested further hurdles in an inspiring manner, and brought Doritos to the world. Fucking Doritos. He was a marketing guy, too—it wasn’t even his job to sit around a test kitchen frying big batches of corn batter ad infinitum until some catchy new snack was created by accident. He was “outside the box,” going above and beyond the call of duty; when he found something genius, he believed in himself and fucking saw it through.

And we got Doritos. Doritos! Remember, children of the eighties—for our whole lives there was one Dorito, now known as Zesty Nacho Cheese or “Nacho Cheesier” or some whored-up shit but back then known simply as “Doritos.” And then in like 1985 Cool Ranch came out and it was fucking Martin Luther nailing his proclamations to the church door. A shattering of worlds. Because as delicious as the Ur-Doritos had been, these Cool Ranch Doritos were, to a child’s palette, even more delicious. Now the Doritos family has splintered into a thousand different flavors; Doritos is the mockingbird of fried corn snacks, mimicking the flavors of every fatty food, cross-branding with Pizza Hut, dolled up as burgers, burritos, guacamole, hot sauce. Most of them aren’t worth shit. Arch West tasted every flavor of Doritos before he died—weeks before his death, in decrepitude at ninety seven years of age, he was given a Rip Roarin’ Cheezeburger flavor or something to try and he spat them out. I like to think that he shed a tear at how his brainchild had been profaned. I like to think he impaled the kneeling Frito-Lay messenger with a spear, sent his head back to corporate as a warning.

But the bigger point here is-- Arch West invented fucking Doritos, and this is a greater contribution to our lives than James Joyce. Bigger than like, Luciano Pavarotti-- if Pavarotti hadn’t sung those songs some other fat guy would’ve. Arch West made a bigger contribution to the life of the world than all but maybe five U.S. presidents. Washington, Lincoln, Jefferson-- and him, more for his accomplishments outside of office than in-- Franklin Roosevelt, and maybe Truman ‘cuz he dropped the bomb. That’s it. Fucking Warren G. Harding didn’t do shit compared to the invention of Doritos. Most presidents are simply place holders, kept in check by congress by design and vainly making noise about making big changes when in fact their job is to just check the country’s oil once in a while and then hand on the keys to the next caretaker. John F. Kennedy would have done better to stop at a snack stand on his many travels to the beach and identify a fried bread product that had not yet caught on with most of the country, add some salt, color, and distinctive spice, and keep the courage of his convictions against his chip overlords until his creation had spread joy and delight to BILLIONS of people. Instead he partially instigated, then subdued, the Cuban Missile Crisis. A wash.

Anyway. Arch West. Goodnight, crunchy prince.

OKCupid Reader Mailbag: How to make a good profile

REDACTED asks:

I gotta be honest man. You have the best profile I've ever read. Both in terms of being well-written, paced and humorous, and also as probably able to wrangle in more women than any other jerkoff profile I've seen. Respect.

That being said, I'm curious if you could give me your thoughts on my profile. I know it's kind of a lame thing to ask, but fuck it, you get it. Do you have any advice for me on how to better attract chicks on here?


OK, well first of all, thank you for saying such nice things. I like my profile, too. I get a lot of these emails because of reddit users briefly discussing me months ago. And most of my visitors are dudes from out of state. So, thanks guys. I wish you were nubile young women from Southern California, but, fuck it. At least someone gives a shit.

But I should tell you-- I get an incoming email from an actual girl in my age range about once every two weeks. If this is in fact the best profile on the entirety of OKCupid, and I am a six foot one athletically built white guy who is gainfully employed in a major metropolis, and this is the unsolicited message yield one can expect from an "original" and "humorous" profile, men are genuinely fucked. Plus my response rate on outgoing emails is about fifty per cent, my phone number rate when I ask this fifty percent for it is about fifty percent, the call back rate when I leave a message is about fifty per cent, and the amount of dates that actually result in sexual intercourse or wanting to see the other person again is fifty per cent, and so on. I am in a Zeno's paradox of pussy where you are walking halfway of halfway of halfway along a wall forever and by the time all the hoops are jumped through the possibility of having an actual relationship is functionally zero. So even if this profile is so fucking great, it's like-- the most lethal Nerf weapon ever invented. There's just not much you can do.

But still. It is good, for what it is. If nothing else, having a funny profile certainly distinguishes you from the rest of the community who are just boring the girls to tears. So, if you want to have a profile like mine, here's how to do it:

Get up an hour early every morning and sit down and make your fingers move on a keyboard until you have to go to work. DO NOT deliberately set out to write an OKCupid profile essay, just write about random shit, or how much your job sucks, or how much you're dreading your visit from your mother, or how your cat ate a gopher and then puked up its bones on your curtains. Write about how you are incensed that the rest of your D & D group wants to switch to 4th edition when you are the wizard and the whole point of playing a wizard was to be underpowered at low levels and then grossly overpowered at high levels and this has all been reduced to a formless mush where all the characters, even the fighters, have fifteen special abilities each that are functionally exactly like wizard spells, and plus you have to buy a whole new set of books and magic missile doesn't always hit anymore and the damage calculations for spells like fireball are just made so middle of the road and "balanced," no more of those ridiculous advances that suddenly turn your character into a badass at level five. And your intelligence modifier contributes to armor class, now-- really! Because you are smart enough to dodge blows? You read a book about how to duck from swords are something, so you no longer get to satisfyingly roleplay a character who is a master of the arcane arts but crazily susceptible to physical blows and can easily be taken out if he's standing in back and the party's thief failed a perception check for any kobolds flanking the party from behind, you know.

Anyway, write about shit like this for an hour for like five days. The trick is doing it long enough that you can get out of the "don't think about polar bears" phenomenon of remembering that this is for your OKCupid profile and just have legitimate, honest observations about life experiences flowing out of you. Then at the end of five days look over what you have and cut and paste whatever your favorite paragraphs are that are remotely germane to "six things I could never do without," etc. Tweak them a little to make them fit the question.

Ultimately, and this is a massive fucking cliche, but it comes down to show don't tell. The more you try to reveal, the more you make a point to reveal, the less you actually reveal. The more you have an on-the-nose discussion about your goals and aspirations in life, the more it feels like a sales brochure and one begins to suspect that your goals and aspirations are the exact opposite. You (the general "you," not you in particular, letter writer) come across as some bullshit advertiser-friendly simulacrum of yourself. And that dishonesty reads as chickenshit. It reads, to me at least, as shame about who you actually are. It reads like you have something to hide.

I know I'm shooting myself in the foot by admitting that virtually no girls actually message me, because look, now don't take my advice-- but-- there are such depths within people, you know. Such interesting stories. And they never want to show them on here; they want to give the sanitized version because they're afraid of scaring people away. Well, the good thing to know about OKC is that you are starting from nothing. Just being a dude who doesn't look like 1994 Casper van Dien has already scared them away. You literally have nothing to lose. You might as well crack yourself up, and if you can get a couple laughs out of people, maybe they will be the kind of people who will not be put off by your giving the list of the top ten abortions you've caused over a glass of Pinot, you know, and then maybe coming home and making it number eleven.

Anyway, long story short: take down all the shit that comes right out and says what you're like and put up random funny shit that is seemingly unrelated to the profile essay topics but is, in its honesty, revealing of who you actually are. Do this well, and you will still not get emails from women. It will make no difference. But you will get noticed by dudes from across the country who mistakenly think you get laid all the time. And really, other guys thinking you get laid is what life is all about.

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Talk to Your Kids about Sex

My mother was a feminist. My single mother, which means, God bless her, that I was raised as a feminist. It means my sex and relationship talks from her were about respecting women. About not taking advantage of women, not hurting them, not raping them. After my stepdad came into our lives I never discussed these things with him. It took a few conversations with my father to sort out the one thing that I really and truly needed to know about sex, which is: you’re not a bad looking dude, and don’t worry, you can get laid.

He’d had a very different life than me. I lost my virginity at seventeen; at that age he had been picked up for dealing heroin and given the choice of going to the clink or enlisting in the marines at the height of Vietnam. He told me stories like “one time I beat up this black guy so bad that I was checking the papers the next day to make sure I hadn’t killed him.” He had a tough, colorful life. I was on scholarship to a prep school where they had not one but two competing a capella groups that in any sensible community would have had the shit kicked out of them on a daily basis. I was going to a school where they flew in math geniuses from China and all the girls wore docksiders and no makeup and were second cousins with Winston Churchill and if they ever saw a penis they would explode. The occasional accidental erection of their horse was the only stiff penis they had ever seen, and they had absolutely no curiosity about expanding their knowledge. A rich new England WASP girl is basically born elderly, in terms of her sexuality. This is why she has time to focus on things like perfecting her application essay to intern at the U.N. When I started at this fancy school, it was immediately clear that none of these girls would ever show even the remotest interest in me; they barely showed interest in boys at all.

But still, I got talks about respecting women. I was assiduous about respecting them, when I couldn’t even get them to notice me or my fucking respect.

But my Dad-- I had always assumed that, you know, the tradeoff to being the kind of person who might go to jail at seventeen is, you get to be the kind of person who’s around girls who will fuck you when you’re fourteen. But no, he told me- I used to worry about girls all the time, you know. It took a while before I got laid a little bit by accident and I started to realize: hey, I'm not a bad lookin dude. I could do all right. Same shit will happen with you.

This was precisely what I needed to hear. When you are in a desert of female interest you begin to think you are a hideous unfuckable mutant and will remain a virgin forever. You are not thinking about how to hurt, break the heart of, or rape a woman. You are thinking about the problem of even getting a woman to notice you. You can't even get into a situation where you are alone in a room with a woman and rape or heartbreak might occur.

So instead of how to respect women and blah blah blah, what you should be telling your teenage son is how to get laid. Failing that: don't worry, you eventually will get laid. Because every ounce of hate, disrespect, every piece of abuse that has come out of me toward women has sprung from the fact that I was either desperate to get laid, or frustrated that I had not been able to get
laid.

Further, you should have two separate health classes, two separate sex eds. Right now sex ed is coed and is just a fancy way of saying "don't fuck." Most places can't say "God will make you blind if you jack off" anymore; they can't say that sexuality is wrong. But they can give you the impression that there's a huge chance that you'll get HIV through heterosexual sex, or that common infections like HPV are likely to have meaningful consequences. They can tell you: when to have sex is your choice, but remember that herpes HIV pregnancy etc., and so you better use a condom. You better use this awkward chemical-smelling medical torture device that that will make it impossible to feel where your dick is going, that will make it so you are not in fact touching the other person-- we can make sex something scary, pleasureless and unnatural with this thing that you now have to wear because some gay guys in 1982 got a disease in a San Francisco bathhouse that you are never going to get.

When to have sex is your choice, but you should be aware of the dangers-- see, go ahead and tell this to the girls' class. Tell the girls not to fuck, that it’s scary, that guys will fuck you and not call you-- tell them all these things; there are real consequences for them. It is their choice when to have sex and they should be aware of the dangers.

But for Christ's fucking sake-- it is certainly NOT a teenage boy's choice when to have sex; if it were, they would have all done it with their very first boner. The dangers are meaningless and not particularly germane to them to begin with; pulling out works; you're not going to get an STD; condoms are horrible, they completely ruin sex-- if they didn't do you think people would have to push them so hard? Every girl on the planet has an abortion and while it's going to fuck with the money you were saving for an Xbox it does not ruin them as human beings; they get over it. Who you lose your virginity to is meaningless, it is not something special for you-- it is a smear on you, visible to all, that needs to be purged as soon as possible. Fuck the fat chick. Fuck the school slut. Fuck your cousin. Do whatever it takes to get rid of your virginity as soon as possible. Because the struggle to get laid in the future very much hinges on it not being a big deal for you. The idea of being your first and providing you with a special life-changing experience and etc. is like a fucking horror movie for a girl. Girls want to get laid with guys who are already getting laid and don't give a shit. Better to throw your virginity away, to not put any weight on the experience-- to get it into your head that a fuck is just a fuck. That's the only way you won’t scare girls away with your unmanly nebbishiness.

When I have a son, that is the talk I'm going to have. Better, I'm going to take him to a hooker when he's thirteen. To show him that a fuck is just a fuck, so that the fucking obsession isn't hanging destructively over his head for his whole life. It burns you, having these early formative years with no girls giving a shit about you. It makes you hate women for the rest of your life. It makes you pissed off every time you see a couple holding hands on the street-- that fucking cunt, of course she's dating a guy in a band. It fucking ruins you. You end up treating women terribly because of this burning hate you carry around, a hate that comes from self-hate, from unworthiness to women. Seeing them as just a piece of pussy, and what's more a piece of pussy that is attainable, is, ironically, the only way you're ever going to treat women like human beings.

Back from the Pussy War

I’m back from the pussy war. This is the war that men fight for 20 years, starting at around age 15. Maybe sooner. You spend 20 years thinking about nothing but pussy, how to get pussy, I need new pussy, where is there going to be pussy. You get out there in the trenches and you battle for pussy, you learn about the enemy, you try to take them down.

Now I’m thirty-five and a half and some hormonal switch has been thrown. Maybe it’s just age, maybe it’s my job crushing it out of me—who knows. But I no longer give a shit about pussy. I’m back from the pussy war.

I did well. Lots of confirmed kills. Not, you know—I didn’t take down the Osama of pussy. I didn’t fuck a lot of nineteen year old supermodels, but I did my part. And I didn’t get hurt. Didn’t get the wound that would take me out of the game—no STD that ever stuck, never impregnated a crazy chick, etc. If they gave out medals for the pussy war I would be decorated.

But I didn’t WIN the pussy war, either, because the objective was to go out and meet and get down with tons of girls, and one of them would be my future wife. I could retire from the pussy war honorably, having attained victory. But none of them were. I just went out there and killed a lot of pussy and it was ultimately for nothing. Pussy Afghanistan is relapsing into anarchy.

So what now? Like a regular war, the pussy war is dangerous, and depressing, and can hurt you, but it’s also exciting. And there’s nothing that can stack up to that now. One must seek out meaning and joy in other areas of life. The taste of food. A hummingbird drinking from a flower. Things that old people like. You are supposed to, at this phase in your life, begin eschewing cheap excitement for the contentment of hearth and home, and children. But I have no children—I lost the war, and now, you know, I’m getting so fucking old that the prospect of meeting someone and having them seems impossible. Like peace in the Middle East.

Diary 9/13/11: The Dogs Bark

The stupid fucking barking dogs. Incessantly, always barking. They begin at about seven every morning. Must be when they’re let out of the house. They walk out the door and down the steps to the front gate and just stand there and bark without ever stopping even for one second. Bark bark bark. Bark bark bark. And of course, there are fifteen other houses on the street with multiple loud, unruly dogs, who all join in a chorus of bark bark bark, bark bark bark. But these two, this neurotic border collie mix and his little white terrier buddy-- the smaller dog, as is often the case, often seeming like the boss-- these two are the instigators. These are the guys who will bark at anything, must bark at everything. If you are in doubt about whether you should bark at something, you better bark at it.

Anyway, they start barking at seven a.m., which means their owner, a spinsterish 45 year old woman, must know that they do this. She must at least hear it on her way to the car, if not from the house as she prepares her bowel-cleansing yogurt and granola. These dogs barking impossibly loud. Loud enough to wake my entire apartment complex two doors down and certainly the other, much larger apartment complex right next door to her with many large windows facing her property. She knows, and she doesn’t give a fuck . One of my neighbors once complained to her and was given the “oh yeah, they’re just territorial.” She was given some very meek, polite version of “these god damn barking dogs are bugging the fuck out of me, ruining every morning, fucking with my sleep; you fuck with my sleep, it fucks with my entire day, every day—“ seriously, have you ever had a great day without having at least seven hours of undisturbed sleep? Never. Anyway, she was given that, and came back with a “well, they’re just that way.” At face value, this means that she thinks that she has no hand at all in the way her dogs behave. That they’re not pliable obedient creatures bred over tens of thousands of years to be spineless and retarded in the face of commands, to basically see you as the Führer and do exactly what they think you’re telling them. Or that just going out to the thousand acre park behind your fucking house and running the little fuckers around until they’re tired, letting them smell a gopher hole, dig up he corpse of a squirrel-- giving them something to think about and look forward to besides looking at the one walled off square of gate, listen for footsteps and then OMIGOD SOMEONE’S WALKING PAST THE HOUSE, A CAR IS DRIVING PAST THE HOUSE OMIGOD: BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK— they are not “just territorial.” They are like this because of you. That fucking border collie could probably do calculus if you taught him; there are sheep farmers in Scotland who have a whole goddamn sign language with these dogs where they can flick their pinky and the thing will steer 500 sheep precisely 30 degrees to the left— it’s not that they’re “just territorial,” it’s that you want to have a dog in your leathery old age where no man will come near you but you don’t want to do the work to make sure the dog has adequate shit going on in his life where he won’t just scream his head off and turn around over and over in a compact circle whenever a leaf falls off the tree across the street.

But that’s not what she really meant anyway, that they’re just like that. What she meant was: fuck off. Because basically, people who live near other people, when they choose to get a dog— what they are really saying is: I do not give one single fuck about the people around me. Someone who gets a dog in a densely populated city and does not take great care to follow the exact instructions of Cesar Millan and run that fucker around for hours every day and show him who is fucking boss and learn how to make him shut the fuck up, someone who is not fastidious about picking up the beast’s shit, who does not immediately punish the animal for snarling and threatening people-- remember, we are talking about city dogs here, not some cur chained to your lot full of cars in Alabama to guard your gas— someone who does these things does not give a fuck at all about other human beings. And I get that some people feel the same way about kids, you know, but if your kid ran up and punched someone in the nuts you would fucking discipline him. Well your fucking dog is kicking me in the nuts of my mind with his god damn seven in the morning barking.

Anyway. Once in a while I go over there and dump a five gallon bucket of water on them. No lemon juice in a squirt gun to the eyes or anything cruel, you know, but just toss a bucket on 'em and they run like hell, and shut up for a while. And I’m not going to lie, I enjoy seeing them wet, cowed and terrified. It’s horrible, but you know-- they’re dicks, and they fucking deserve it.

Done getting laid

So-- I no longer give a shit about getting laid. Or I do, on a visceral level, like if I see a hot young chick with big tits jogging down the street I get horny. Whenever the nineteen year old mailroom girl comes by to deliver the mail, I get all pheromonal. We have a thing together, a flirtatious thing. I need to figure out how to make something happen with that.

Except I don't, because that's the thing. Aside from the most basic animal lust, I do not give a shit about getting laid. I will not go through the slightest effort to get laid. I will not say or do anything at any time that is any different than if I were not trying to get laid. Which I'm not. Trying to get laid.

Like-- twice in the past few weeks I've had good first dates with hot, reasonably interesting girls that I've gotten along well with. Perfectly solid girls. 4 stars on OKCupid for sure. Each time we ended up back at the apartment and it got physical; in one case the chick wouldn't take out her puss cuz she had a yeast infection, in the other I ended up performing oral sex on her. So while obviously I tried to have sex on the first date and it didn't happen, sex on the second date, which in both cases we had quasi-planned that night-- sex on the second date was fucking GUARANTEED. And both times, I blew it off. I did the thing that girls do to me-- I texted them that day that I couldn't make it without proposing a specific other time that we could go out. Because it was too hot, I was too hung over, the drive was going to be a pain in the ass... I did not make the simple effort just to go and harvest the fucking that I had painstakingly sewn on those first dates. I could not be bothered to reach my hand up and pluck the ripe fruit from the tree. Too much work. These girls would have had to volunteer to come over to my place some night when i was already drunk basically.

And as little as two months ago there is NO WAY this would have been the case. But I just can't do it anymore. I refuse to put any effort whatsoever into even guaranteed new pussy. What the fuck happened? Is it my testosterone? Is the grueling, humiliating grind of work just turning me into such an omega monkey that my nuts are basically falling off? My whiny priss of a boss constantly, snivelingly chewing me out over tasks that are so far beneath me that if anyone I knew walked into my office and saw what I actually do, I would be so mortified that I could basically never speak to that person again? The fact of being a subordinate, the low man on the totem pole, to people who are beneath you intellectually-- has this, after years of being able to put up with it-- has it finally gotten so bad that it actually unmanned me?

But I mean, I still jack off every day. I still lift weights. I still get just as physically horny, and just as viscerally enraged at the constant humiliations of my eleven hour per day low paying intellectually unsatisfying shitbag of a career-- I still fantasize about tearing apart my boss's tiny frail frame like dismembering a chicken wing. I still have, you know, secondary sex characteristics. I'm not growing tits. I don't think my hormone levels have changed that drastically. Certainly not drastically enough to make me not want to get laid with hot new ass, for Christ's sake.

So what is it? It's not that I don't want to fuck, it's just that I don't want to work for it-- at all. And I think the real issue with these chicks is that while the conversation flowed pretty well after three or four eleven per cent alcohol beers, they didn't really excite me as human beings. I could not see myself in a relationship with either one of them based on this one date, and I'm tired of doing it by rote. I was certainly being funny and telling them things they hadn't heard before, but it didn't feel like i was hearing shit I hadn't heard before. It felt like work.

I want somebody who gives something back, for Christ's sake. I want to walk away from a conversation feeling like "wow," you know? Feeling like, holy shit, that girl is fucking amazing-- I want to feel a little nervous like I better be on top of my game with her. I better not fuck up. I don't want to just feel like "oh, she'll never fuck me" or "that ass is in the bag." That's what happens, when girls can't engage you with little known facts about the potato being closely related to nightshade or whateverthefuck-- it becomes a mercenary game of would she fuck me can I fuck her I better be funny I better get her drunk; every conversation becomes completely agenda-driven and one-sided in the venal pursuit of ass. The pursuit of a piece of new pussy to keep the ego demons at bay for another two months. And I just can't fucking do it anymore.

The problem is, you never meet girls who will wake you up at all, ever, anywhere. There are less girls out populating the parties and bars and streets and grocery stores than there are men to begin with, and if they don't look like Rocky Dennis they have a boyfriend, or they're not going to come up and start talking to you-- you have to go up and talk to them while they hang back expectantly like dance, monkey, dance. Either they're too shy to come out with the trivia and jokes and secrets and stories and whatnot that are going to engage you or they flat out don't have them to begin with-- just being a chick who doesn't look like Rocky Dennis has been enough to sate their social needs. But still-- even if they don't need to be cool to get laid, aren't chicks just fucking interested in shit? Do chicks ever walk out of the apartment at seven in the morning and see two hummingbirds fighting or something and then go read about hummingbirds on wikipedia for forty-five minutes to learn about why they are such surprisingly aggressive birds? Or maybe they aren't, I'm making that up. But don't chicks get interested in this kind of shit and want to talk to someone about it?

Anyway. Fuck it, you know, this getting laid for the sake of getting laid. Now I'll have more time to concentrate on Xbox.

Match.com screening sex offenders

So a woman went on a date off match.com; the guy was a convicted sexual batterer, and he went ahead and sexually battered her, too. So she sued them and now match.com is screening out sex offenders:

http://jezebel.com/5792045/women-sues-matchcom-after-date-leads-to-assault

Or trying to. Wonder what the mechanics are here. Do you now have to give them your social security number? Is it men only? I mean, it’s a different beast than OKC because match.com is already taking your credit card number, so, they’re already in the business of identifying you as an individual human being. As far as OKC goes you could actually be a sentient jellyfish that got a hold of a keyboard somehow. That’s kind of the beauty of it.

By the way, match.com is also in the business of taking your credit card number and charging sixty nine ninety nine to it every three months, forever. It’s genius how they do this—every three months that sixty nine ninety nine shows up on your balance. You see it and think “what the fuck? I haven’t signed on to that shit in three years.” You call-- you make a series of calls, emails, match tells you to call the bank, the bank tells you to call a different division of the bank, the different division of the bank tells you to call match, who tells you to email, you get no email back, you email again, you call again, etc., etc. and ultimately it turns out you have to do something like send a certified letter signed by a notary or bolstered by an Act of Congress or something and then MAYBE within ninety days they’ll stop charging your credit card. It becomes such a hassle to get off of match.com that you just forget about it for another three months, until you see that charge again and flip out. Maybe you even go on match, figure, fuck it, I’m payin’ for it. You go on match and it’s the exact same chicks that are on OKC, except they too haven’t logged on to match in three years.

Eventually you just change your credit card and I’m sure the match.com system still keeps pinging it every three months, trying to charge it, eventually sending five years worth of sixty nine ninety nine charges to some collection agency where it fucks up your credit rating and the debt gets sold for pennies on the dollar to some outfit out of Nevada that will call your former workplaces trying to track you down over a “private matter.” True story: the first time I got a weird charge from match.com I called the credit card company and they said “oh yes, this is match.com, to resolve this you have to call the company’s customer service directly. Here’s the number: one eight hundred blah blah blah.” And I said "oh, that's nice-- Bank of America keeps a database of customer service numbers on file for customers?“ And the rep said “no, the only one we have that for is match.com.” Seriously. They got called about match.com so many times that it’s the ONLY outside company number Bank of America keeps on hand.

Anyway, now they're screening out sex offenders. The obvious question: are they throwing the public urinators in there, too? You always hear about this, how the guy taking a piss in the bush outside the Dodger game is going to have to sign up for life to be a registered sex offender. He’s going to have to go door to door every time he moves, forever, like Jesus in THE BIG LEBOWSKI, all crazy-eyed in slow motion, because he took a piss outside a Dodger game and therefore his dick was en plein air where a child might see it from 500 yards away. Although-- you hear about this, but I did a Megan’s Law search for my neighborhood to see if there were any public urinators and:

A) Every single Megan’s Law convict in my area is on the site either for multiple counts of aggravated forcible rape or multiple counts of forced intercourse with a minor under fourteen yeards of age, or lewd and lascivious acts with a minor under fourteen years of age. So-- the only possible bullshit ones are the “lewd and lascivious acts.” That sounds like maybe you showed them some porn or something, or talked dirty. But still, under fourteen. I like that the law has that distinction. I know we’re real puritanical about underage sex, but there really is a difference between under eighteen and under fourteen. I hope guys who get convicted of boning sixteen year olds have their crime listed as “lewd and lascivious acts with a minor under eighteen BUT over fourteen.” The law's version of “eh, we’ve all jacked off to it.”

B) Every single Megan’s Law convict in my area looks EXACTLY like you would expect a forcible aggravated rapist or forcible copulator with a minor under fourteen years of age to look. Seriously, Echo Park Megan’s law is some central casting shit—mustaches, Mark David Chapman glasses, tawny thinning hair combed over a shiny sebaceous scalp. There’s some ethnic diversity in there but even the black guys have a cast like Stanley Tucci in LOVELY BONES. If you saw any of these guys on the street, you would INSTANTLY know that they are a multiply-offending aggravated forcible rapist and/or forcible copulator with minors under the age of fourteen. I bet they all drive primer-colored windowless vans too.

But back to the fucking point. Match.com is screening out sex offenders to avoid bad PR about a chick getting raped by a repeat offender. This is their 9/11 and the screening is their terror watch list, and soon we're all gonna have to take off our shoes and have a stout Dennis Franz looking dude forage around our taint at the airport of internet dating. And you know what? Fine. This is one of the few areas in life where whether you're a sex offender SHOULD matter. You should be kicked off match.com if you get convicted of rape, and you should not be able to be a mall Santa if you did three years for fingerfucking your niece. But frankly, these are the ONLY things the sex offender registry should be used for, instead of its curent overreaching fucking miasma of public humiliation, baiting of vigilantism, crushing of lives and careeres, banning public urinators from living within a thousand feet of schools in cities where there's a fucking school every five hundred feet, etc. The sex offender registry is a cruel and unusual crock of shit and should have been completely done away with BUT not now, because they've finally found a legitimate use for it. I give a fuck about sex offenders in two areas of life: being around kids and being in the dating pool scaring the girls, and that's it. I don't give a shit if the guy at the muffler shop likes the bald pussy.

I mean of course, any sense of security you get from this is false, you can be sex offended at any time by anyone, the call is coming from INSIDE THE HOUSE, etc. And there's no way they execute this without some poor John Hodgman-looking schlump with the same name as a rapist getting tracked down by a match.com torch mob and strung up. And sex crimes are overrreported as well as underreported, so a bunch of these guys probably did time for nothing because some child psychologist had a hard on to find some Satanic Ritual Abuse, and now this dude is out and he can't even go on a date. And even TALKING about sex offenders, even doing something that ostensibly makes online dating MORE SAFE, just by bringing it up you are making every girl think that their date is going to show up with a nylon stocking over his face and a boxcutter. But still. Why the fuck not.

Old News: The Magic: the Gathering® Guy and That One Chick

So, no one who is possibly reading this post has not heard about this:

http://gizmodo.com/5833787/my-brief-okcupid-affair-with-a-world-champion-magic-the-gathering-player

The girl who went out with a guy off OKC, found out he was a world champion Magic: the Gathering® player, was ostensibly appalled and wrote a Gizmodo article about how she was stunned and it's a huge dealbreaker and etc.

Couple things. First, as Forbes was quick to point out, of course this is an obvious troll. This woman, desperate to make a living in the non-lucrative world of blog writing, has just said “fuck it,” you know, I need something that gets a million hits. So I’m gonna write about how I’m a chick who was appalled to date a nerd, thus getting the two commentingist, complainingest groups on the planet to catch fire over my article. Chicks and nerds.

And second, yes, ultimately her beef is bullshit, the fact that he’s the world champion Magic: the Gathering® player being a huge dealbreaker and etc. I mean, millions of people play Magic: the Gathering®. It’s not really that big a deal to be a nerd anymore; it’s just its own subculture. It’s not quite a sexy one like punk rocker or whatever but it’s its own thing and nerds can get laid now. So at face value her point is really bitchy, and her whole hedging about getting on Okcupid in the first place—her whole thinly-veiled I’m-too-good-for-this thing-- while, again, a deliberate troll, well, yes, it’s twatty. She is a twat, and she should be called a twat. So Sharon Bezefrnak or whateverthefuck your name is, you are a twat.

BUT people are failing to read between the lines here. Because people are getting hung up on the Magic-being-the-dealbreaker thing and not looking at her whole description of the date. Which—he is a hedge fund manager. Only two kinds of people do this-- drunken date rapist frat boys, and cold, Aspergian number-crunching nerds. Of course he is the latter. He manages a hedge fund, but he is not the smooth guy out there hobnobbing with the nephew of the Sultan of Brunei over martinis at the titty bar, convincing him through camaraderie to sink $200 million of oil money into a Brazilian ruby mining concern with high upside potential. There is some other guy, probably a lacrosse player of some kind, who does this, while Jon Finkel sits back in a cramped office with one buzzing florescent light and pores over 12,000 page excel spreadsheets looking for some curvilinear regression formula that will add .0002 cents 8 times out of ten to the result of an equation with 47 variables. Or coming up with some piece of code that will robotically act on some stock price information transmitted from the Nikkei to make 4,000 fake transactions per second that it stops short of actually executing so it can artificially drive up the price of Philippine corn commodities by one one thousandth of a penny a million times per day. You know he is this guy, because he plays Magic: the Gathering®.

So my guess is he is some kind of socially hobbled Aspergian. And therefore I speculate that he fucked up not by dropping the Magic® bomb, but in HOW he dropped the Magic® bomb. Because there is no piece of information EVER, ANYWHERE on the planet that will make a chick recoil if you deliver it confidently, like it’s no big deal. Murder, sex offender registry, Magic®: the Gathering, whatever. I routinely tell my dates that I have to turn in early to get up for an eight hour Dungeons and Dragons session the next day. ROUTINELY. NO ONE ever has any real issue with this. Because I say it like I have no fucking problem or insecurity with it, because I have no problem or insecurity with it. Lots of girls sarcastically take the bait, go for some easy dig, and I tell them to fuck right off. I'm gonna take you home and rawdog you, and then I'm gonna get up and carefully optimize my enchanter spellbook. Because Dungeons and Dragons is fucking FUN. And I am not afraid to say so, with confidence.

So when the issue of Magic: the Gathering® came up, you KNOW he was hemming and hawing about it, or worse, he was deliberately holding it back until he could smugly declare that he was the world champion, hoping this would impress her. Either way he was THINKING about it, thinking in advance about what to do when it came up, or how to make it come up, and the fact that he even had to think shows that he was already dead to all pussy, now and forever.

Plus, he took her to a one man show about Jeffrey Dahmer. And he went on a second date with her, even though she looks like you put a wig on Albert Finney:








Which makes me think maybe the dude doesn’t have a ton of options. Nothing against him— it’s hard when you have a job and time-consuming hobbies, etc.

Anyway, yes, the chick is a twat, but they'll get like that if you don't man up about liking wizards. Just my two cents.

Thursday, September 01, 2011

What always happens is

I'll be having a sex dream, right? Usually this starts as a regular dream, but then an attractive chick shows up and I just grab her to start fucking. Last night the scene was that I was back in my college looking for my dorm room, but the doors were all sci-fi futuristic and I couldn't find mine. I went into some random room and there was a hot blonde chick in there and I pulled up her skirt and bent her over her bed. This is what happens, whenever a hot chick shows up in my dream- the narrative of the dream, whatever emotional message it was trying to tell me, goes out the window and I just grab her and rip off her clothes.

Anyway, I had this chick bent over with her rump exposed, and she was all giggly, and I got on top of her and lined up my dick and went to push it in, you know? Except my body pantomimed this thrusting motion in my sleep and my boner rubbed gratingly against the sheets and it woke me up.

And this happens to me EVERY FUCKING TIME. Only ONCE have I ever had actual intercourse in a dream; this was, interestingly, in the selfsame college dorm room heretofore mentioned when my roommate's bed was right next to mine and I couldn't jack off for like a week. I guess I was so horny that I just powered through it. But anyway- every time, my boner grinds against my mattress on the first pump and wakes me up instantly. It is the most frustrating thing in the fucking world.

Fuck "your" and "you're"

and "there," "their" and "they're--" I need a chick who throws a diæresis in "coöperate," and an "æ" in "diæresis," but doesn't use a diæresis in "diæresis" because you are not, without this forewarning, going to pronounce "diæresis" as though "iæ" were a a monosyllabic diphthong. I need a chick who carefully searches for the correct combination of keys to make a circumflex over "rôle," but ONLY when discussing a part played by an actor. I need a chick who says "AN historian." In fact, she better really hammer the "ANNNNN" in a sly nod to anyone else out there who thinks someone who says "a historian" is an illiterate savage. I wouldn't date anyone who says "I would like" unless they're talking about some counterfactual fantasy universe. I wouldn't like to date that person. See, I can say it, because I'm not really ever gonna hear someone say "I would like to go out with you" outside of a counterfactual fantasy universe. I'm never gonna hear someone use the correct "I should like to go out with you," either, but I WOULD really fucking like to date that person. She'd have studied classics and she'd use words like "Grecism" pronounced as though it had a cédille, but she would cringe a little every time because pronouncing a "c" like that is the fucking opposite of a Grecism.


Also, no fat chicks.