My last girlfriend, for one perfect example out of many perfect examples I have, told me that not only was she lots smarter than me, but that she could also beat me up. Her father was 6’4” and one of her brothers is 6’6” and 300 pounds. The other brother is 6’8” and 320. She says one of them looks like Bull in the “Night Court” TV program. I forget which brother she meant, but does it really matter?
She is 5’8” and 145 pounds. She lifts weights and is so strong she can curl her toes down and pop the soles off her shoes. I’m 6” and 175 and to this day she insists she can beat me up. Or down, depending on your definition.
I will admit she is an amazing natural athlete, was a soccer fanatic for years (which is why she has no cartilage in her knees), and once got knocked cold by a line-drive softball to the head.
I never beat her in air hockey. She just destroyed me. I held my own against her at miniature golf. The only thing I always beat her at was slot cars, which made me cackle evilly and really pissed her off.
She got an MBA in Finance and Accounting from the University of Chicago and told me her IQ is 143, which is why she insists she is smarter than me, which if I didn’t let her think that she probably would have started crying, which girls do a lot. She got a job with the federal government and made $120,000 a year on my tax money, which always made her smirk when I bought it up.
Her sister and her husband got in early on Microsoft and are worth about 20 million dollars. They not only have an ocean cabin cruiser and an airplane, but also a house on the beach with an elevator, for God’s sake! Her sister knows Bill Gates and said when she wasn’t married Gates was clearly interested in her, but she was not interested in him, which doesn’t surprise me at all, and shouldn’t have surprised him, either, because this girl is six feet tall.
That was her background. Then she met me. She immediately gave me the icy eyeball when I showed up in my summer uniform of beige short pants, a Hawaiian shirt, a baseball cap, and white socks with white sneakers. But I melted her cold, cold heart because I made her laugh, as I make many women laugh. and then their clothes fall off, and they’re never quite sure how it happened. They’re always really grateful, though, even though they’re embarrassed afterward what with the baby talk and passing out and all.
She was also instantly horrified by my car. She waxed wroth and frothed at the sight of it. I have only bought one new car in my car, because new cars are a con. This one was the one new car. It was a Chevy Cavalier and I had it towed to the junkyard with 480,000 miles on it. She told me if I hadn’t she was going to have it towed away and crushed into a cube. She hated it that much.
When she got in it, she shrieked like a bunny what got dumped into a blender. She stopped at Wal-Mart and bought a bagful of cleaning supplies, and spent an hour scrubbing the inside of my car, claiming it was disgusting. She was hallucinating, the way women always hallucinate dirt.
She kept hollering, “Dirt! Dirt! Look at all this dirt! Dirt! Dirt! Dirt!” even there was no dirt in the car. She even bought a scrub-brush, which I still have, although I now have a van. She’s never been inside it. She’d start scrubbing, I guarantee you.
She did worse things to me. She got me in headlocks and dragged me to Hugh Grant films. I had to watch Bruce and Arnold and Clint on Netflix in the garage, where I had a TV, a fridge and my Barcalounger. That’s where she banished me while she Martha Stewarted my apartment.
When she first saw my apartment, her eyes rolled up in her head. I will admit it looked as if someone had loaded all my belongings into a cannon, opened the front door and fired it, along with a bunch of cheeseburger wrappers and empty bottles of Yoo Hoo. But it wasn’t that bad.
She also threw away all my clothes, including my underwear and shoes. She said she would not be seen in public with me wearing my sneakers, which were the very spiffy kind with the Velcro straps. I felt like I had licked a car battery when I saw my shoes were gone. Where was my guardian angel on that one?
She threw away my tighty-whities and made me wear boxer briefs, which she said were “hot.” Sure, whatever. She never wore the Kendra, Warrior Babe of the Galaxy outfit I bought for her. She also laughed at my Star Fleet Command shirt, especially when I unlimbered my “phaser.”
She took me to a clothing store where she and the female clerk basically stood on my feet and used me as a dummy for different outfits. I walked out in that metrosexual layered look. I looked as if I should have minced down the street and flapped my wrists and lisped about what a wonderful color puce is. It was horrible! I was about ready to cut her into little pieces and put her in freezer bags after doing that to me.
She bought me a pug puppy and on the way home held him in her lap the entire time. I had to roll up my window every time a vehicle passed, because she thought the noise would wake him up.
She also informed me she thought about keeping him because she told me I would kill him by dropping him, stepping on him, sitting on him, poisoning him, losing him, rolling over on him, sneezing on him, or looking at him wrong. But she did relent and let me keep him. Later on, when he grew up and ran in circles all the time, she didn’t want anything to do with him. She also didn’t like the fact he tried to fill her ears and nostrils with dog spit.
She told me I snored like a chainsaw and always slept on the couch in the other room. When I did start snoring – if I did snore, and she had no proof I ever did – she would jab me in the ribs with her elbow and wake me up. And she jabbed hard, too.
After all this I was about ready to roll on my back with my feet in the air like a dead bug, or maybe one of those plastic soldiers little boys pose in war scenarios.
Women always try to change men but they never realize it’s not possible. It doesn’t stop them from trying, though. And they never realize how obvious they are with the attempts at manipulation.
I gave up my man-slut ways for her (although I am now back to them) and what did she do? Try to remove all my good manly-man Cigars&Whiskey software and install her own.
Either that, or else they try to suck the soul right out of your body, like one of those undead zombies when they clamber out of the grave looking for a snack. Blech! Give me back my soul right now, you wench!
Life is messy, like a Lab with diarrhea. Would that every piece fall into place, that couples understand each other, that soul mates really did exist. Instead, generally, people semi-suck.
Do people ever give up on attempts at relationships? Never! And the Dark Gods laff and laff and laff at us, amused to no end.
And women think men are the crazy ones. Hah! If it wasn’t for us they would cry themselves to sleep every night.