Friday Hate: 7/31

This week marks glorious return to Friday Hate

Wedding rings.

For a guy in his mid twenties that is looking to bang every attractive piece of trim that comes across his path, there's nothing worse than seeing a wedding ring.

I would rather see an open, herpetic sore than see a wedding ring, because at least a sore means there's a good chance she'll bang you in some sort of closet/bathroom/phone booth.

A note to all you single ladies out there: avoid rings at all costs. It's just a turn-off, and no one wants to risk being that jackass that hits on a chick that is married.

At least with a boyfriend you have an excuse, because there's no instant boyfriend indicator like there is a wedding ring.

Side note: you chicks who have boyfriends that don't always come with you to parties or live in a another town, make that clear as soon as I start talking to you. There's nothing that pisses me off more than spending a party making inane conversation and pretending you're actually a funny girl (which don't exist), only to have you casually drop the phrase, "my boyfriend" at 3 a.m.

That shit is fucking infuriating.

I was at a party a few months ago, and spend the entire time talking with this bitch. We played shitty ass drinking games, like 'thumper' and I listened her talk about the stupid-ass degree she was chasing which would not have any practical application in the real world. Only, since I was trying to hit that, I was like, "Oh yeah, cultural anthromorphology, that's so interesting. Tell me, what does the inside of the zipper on my pants tell you about me?"

And of course, as the party is winding down, I find myself with her alone in the living room, trying to desperately close the deal, and the 25 beers I drank working against me in every way.

I comment on some movie that's sitting on the coffee table (I think it was Ghostbusters) and I go, "that's a great movie, the second one isn't bad too."

"Oh, I haven't seen that one, though I've always wanted to," she said.

Sensing the opening for a late night movie (read: genitals) showing, I say, "Oh, well, I've got it at my place if you ever want to watch it."

She comes back with, "Oh, that would be cool. My boyfriend says it's a great flick. His name is Chip, you would really like him."

BITCH. I WOULD NOT FUCKING LIKE HIM. IN FACT, I FUCKING HATE HIM.

Really? She couldn't have mentioned that five MOTHERFUCKING hours ago?

But there was no wedding ring.

The only thing that's worse than a wedding ring is chicks who don't wear them, then drop the h-bomb when I'm already committed.

I met a girl a few weeks ago, she was hot, and seemed to be digging the conversation. About half an hour in, she drops the "husband" bomb, and I got the fuck out of there.

To recap, I hate wedding rings, or chicks that are married that don't wear wedding rings, or chicks with boyfriends. Basically, I hate any chick that has a legitimate excuse for not boning me.

I also hate the chicks that have no excuse, but still don't bone me.

Well, that about covers the entire female species. I hate all you cunts. Prove me wrong.

First Contact

I come to you now after a long vacation. Both from work, and an even longer one from writing for this site. Part of me was seduced by the easy lure of Posterous, (which I still update please to be checking it out), part of me was a little burned out from doing so much at work.

But I'm back now, brimming with fresh stories of alcohol-fueled obnoxiousness. Like the following, minus the alcohol.

I generally wear glasses to see long distances. I ear them when I drive, I used to wear them all the time in class, and I wear them a lot at work.

Lately I've gotten fucking sick of wearing my glasses, making sure they're clean, not losing them while hammered, all that stuff.

So I decided to make an appointment to get contacts. I had a Monday off, so I went to this place, and got an eye exam, before getting fitted for contacts. It was in my insurance and close to my place, but it was a new doctor for me.

I don't have a phobia about eyes or anything, but there is nothing more terrifying than waiting for that fucking puff of air to get your eyes. I would rather wait in front of a firing squad.

I always flinch like a bitch at every little shift, and then when the puff comes out, I always shove myself back, sometimes letting out a piglet-like squeal of pure terror. I hate myself.

Once the exam is finished, it was time to meet my new eye doctor. I've had a few eye doctors in the past, and they're usually the weirdest looking people you've ever met. Very nice people, mind you, but strange.

This trip was the exception to the rule. Because my doctor was drop dead gorgeous. Tan, dirty blonde hair, and about 6-2.

I love tall chicks. And most importantly, no wedding ring. See this week's Friday Hate for more info on that.

The problem? I've been on vacation for more than a week now, so not only are my shower schedules way off (shower at night), but I'm about a month overdue for a haircut, and I'm wearing the same filthy-ass shorts I've worn for the entire vacation, meaning they probably smell like fish and cigar smoke and beer.

I was hoping for one of those "Which is better, number one, or number two?" style tests, only instead of the stupid letter chart, I would get to stare at those gorgeous breasts, but alas, it wasn't to be.

So I get my exam, and go through all the shit, and then they hand me over to some Oriental broad, and here's where the trouble starts.

It was like the scene where the Asian chick is waxing Andy's chest in 40-year-old Virgin, except this bitch was putting shit in my eye.

Then I had to take them out. Then put them in. Then take them out. Then put them in. Then take them out.

In and out three times had to happen three times before I was finished (hey-oh!). By the end of it, my eyes were bloodshot, there were hot salty tears everywhere, and I had nary a shred of dignity.



It was like that, except replace "body waxed" with "putting shards of fucking glass in my eye."