Gull, You'll Be a Wormen Soon

Women scare the ever-living daylights out of me.  Boo!  I’m scared.  Not as scared as I am of the seven consecutive words “I want you to be my wife”, but fuck, put me in a gurney because I’m ready to die rather than journey through the depths of my soul trying to understand the females.  Aside from the datum that I truly am attracted to women (but too frightened to eat pussy, so that’s where my lesbianism ends), I can’t get past the rawness that I feel when confronted with the fact that women can be your best, best, bestest friends for years, but come next summer, BOOOOOOOOM, you’re Dead to Them because for whatever reason, you fucked up and said they didn’t look good in orange.  Dead, dead, dead.  These days, about 95% of my friends are guys, and about 65% of those guys are only hanging out with me because they think I’ll fuck them.  However, no matter what hidden motives the men in my life may have, amigas, I’m more enticed to hanging out with people that don’t hold grudges like it’s going out of style, don’t vejazzle-dazzle their crotch areas, and are generally way more consistent friends.

I don’t know.  I just don’t know.  Defining women is akin to when fools like me call Mad Men the new Looney Tunes and mean it.  Isn’t that terrible?  Likening Don Draper to Bugs Bunny is a terrible thing.  On the flip side, comparing Chevy Chase to Bugs Bunny is downright judicious.  Seriously, insert Bugs into any one of Chevy’s Caddy Shack scenes, and you won’t tell the difference.  Or, if your Photoshop skills are as remedial as mine, just insert a carrot into Chevy’s hand instead.  OR, if your Photoshop skills are incredible, superimpose Chevy’s head onto Bugs’ in that Transylvania 6-5000 episode of Tunes.  Yeah, now you’ve got it! 

This is starting to sound like a rant, but I honestly don’t see any way out of this than by coming off as a little harsh.  Dudes certainly have their issues as well as women, but that’s for another post at another time.  I REALLY do want girlfriends, and I think it’s fucking sad I don’t have many.  It’s not lost on me that the reasoning for me being categorized more as a Guy’s Girl has something to do with my own personality flaws (trust me when I say I stand in front of the mirror from time to time smearing lipstick all over my face, yelling “You Suck!”), and this whole post is unjustly generalizing women to a high degree.  However, that awareness and unfairness isn’t gonna stop me from whittling a stick while contemplating about how strange women behave sometimes.

For instance, I don’t particularly appreciate how the laaydaays get a Cosmopolitan up their ass and treat homosexuals like their own little personal pets.  Like, “Hi Personal Pet.  How are you nowadays?  No wait, let me tell you about my dilemma on the Man Front first.  You like to hear about my guy troubles because you can relate, right, my precious?  While I talk, we’ll go shopping for hot designer clothes that we’ll come up with the money for in the future, and get drunk right during the afternoon, and bitch about whoever-the-fuck saunters past us!  Today’s gonna be fierce, Pet, FIERCE!”  No.  No, ladies, you’re wrong.  You’re wrong to do that.  I know I’m like the thirty millionth human that’s made the foregoing observation, but I still am floored when I hear some of my closest, absolutely best friends talk about gay guys like life’s one giant episode of that despicable show Will & Grace.  Yuck, ladies, enough.

Concurrent with my fear of pissing women off is my sincere and utter appreciation for their existence.  Women are indeed magical creatures with titties that make me want to blast off the dust from my pom-poms from high school:  Last night, I went to a bar that shared a wall with a sushi restaurant.  A bar in which it feels weird to drink a Pabst while continually getting whiffs of dead fish up my nose.  Well, as it happens, I had to piss, so I headed into the Ladies Room, and guess what I saw?  You’ll never guess.  You will never, ever, ever, ever venture a guess, so cease guessing.  Right in front of me, on the stall door was an enormous graffiti tag in bright pink spray paint of the Twitter logo.  I was slightly fucked up on something or other, so I had to give the ole Twitter T a double take.  Yep, it was still there.  I giggled, then started cackling, then broke out into maniacal laughter with my underpants still hanging around my ankles.  I want to meet the girl that tagged the stall because I find that fucking funny, and at the moment I felt like she spray painted all over my emotions.  Is she some sort of genius?  She has to be.  What better way to confuse the hell out of a drunk bitch then by  peddling over to the hardware store, purchasing hot pink spray paint, shoving it into your purse, waltzing over to the fishy bar, and tagging your favorite social network onto a bathroom stall door?  Clever girl.  Clever girl.  This is for you: