OK, OK, before you start tearing into me, hear me out. It’s not like I just decided one day that every woman on the face of the planet is a complete moron. I assure you, this is based on years and years of field research. Let me elaborate:
First there was Candice.
Candice, honey, how can you be so stupid? Remember what a great time we had at the club that night? You were in that hot little mini skirt and I walked up to you and fed you the most awesome pick-up line ever:
“I’d really love to get into your panties, but I’m afraid they’d be too small.”
Man, that was a good one. The moment you heard it, you melted. I mean, sure, you had this look of disgust on your face, but I could sense that inside, your heart was all a flutter. Anyhow, after I wiped your drink off of my face, I sat there and chatted with you for what seemed like hours. It was cute how you played hard-to-get, turning to talk to that other guy who was sitting next to you.
Yeah, we had this little game going: I’d tap you on the shoulder. You’d tell me to get lost. I’d tap you on the shoulder again. You’d tell me to fuck off. I’d tap you on the shoulder again and you’d get up and leave.
That went on for a while. Then, finally, after you found me waiting for you outside of the ladies’ restroom, you were so happy to see me, you were almost in tears. You said, “Please leave me alone,” but your eyes said, “don’t go.” So I didn’t. Unfortunately, it was getting late, so I thought I’d end the charade and ask for your phone number.
It was so cute how you yelled at me while you wrote down your digits: “You want my fucking phone number? Fine! Have a fucking field day!” Heh. That still makes me chuckle.
Anyhow, long story short, I tried calling you and I ended up talking to some guy at Dominos pizza. Do you work at Dominos pizza? They said they don’t know anyone named Candice. There’s a Connie there, but no Candice. In any case, I hung out at that Dominos all day, hoping to see you. No such luck. Maybe it was your day off. Or maybe you’re just a fucking idiot who doesn’t know her own phone number! I can’t believe I wasted that awesome pick-up line on you. But don’t worry. You’re not alone. It seems that every woman I meet has no clue who they are or where they live.
One idiot, April, couldn’t even remember her own e-mail address. I spent all this time writing a poem about how we met at Victoria’s Secret and how she thought it would be funny to call the mall security on me. Do you have any fucking idea how hard it is to find something that rhymes with “secret”? It’s damn near impossible, let me tell you. I ended up resorting to using a Pakistani word that I think refers to the texture of a camel’s hump.
But April will never know, because she gave me the wrong fucking e-mail address! Guess what, April, I did some research. There isn’t even a fuckoffanddie.com domain in existence. I mean, some guy is squatting on it, but it doesn’t point to anywhere. And while we’re at it, there’s no fuckoffanddie.net. No fuckoffanddie.org, either. Believe me, I tried them all. What the hell were you thinking? Who am I supposed to send this goddamn poem to now? Huh?
Anyhow, that’s just a couple examples of how stupid women are. Of course, I have an entire notebook filled with these sad cases. But I won’t bore you with them all. Oddly enough, they’re very much alike. At first, these women seem pretty intelligent. But for some reason, none of them have any idea who they are, where they live or how to reach them. Honestly, I’m surprised they’re even able to feed themselves. Really. Is it just me or what?
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