Through my travels, I've always come across the the wonderment that is the Indian girl. She is beautiful, she is smart, she is mystical... she is highly unattainable. Don't get me wrong, this is somewhat true. There are a lot of you mainstream daters that have coveted that brown beauty that helped you pick out a computer at the Best Buy or sat a few rows behind you in engineering class. Except, Indian girls do not generally follow the rules of mainstream dating and you may not know how to approach the problem. Here, I will demystify you in a stepwise fashion.
1. Most Indian girls will not give it up on a first, second, third..... fifteenth date. Wow, what a shocker. Yes, most Indian women were raised in highly unbroken homes in communities that were plagued with a very small divorce rate. Our fathers came from stock that raised them to be honorable to their wives no matter what the circumstances are. This basically means that very few of us have "daddy issues" that you can manipulate into getting her to hop into bed with you. Unless, you are willing to commit, the panties will not be coming off. Sorry.
2. If you make any sexual comments or advances during any of said dates, don't expect you calls to be returned.
3. If you make any comments about your "mommy issues," your past foray into drug/alcohol addiction, or commonly misunderstood elements of Indian culture, don't expect your calls to be returned.
4. This leads to the fact that no, not all Indian women are virgins. We are sexual creatures, but that does not mean that we cannot control our bouts of lonesomeness and end up knocking boots with some creepy guy in a handlebar mustache.
5. We are not submissive or have hopes of an arranged marriage, though the arranged marriage idea is not all that bad of an idea considering how horrid real world dating can be.
6. No, we are not manipulated by our friends and family into not having sex with gentlemen that take us out. That was your fault. See points 1-5 to refresh your memory.
7. As members of a "model minority," we are pressured to do our best to remain in the income bracket that our parents toiled to achieve. If you complain that Indian girls only go for the "rich" and "educated," you clearly are upset because you are not qualified. It is like asking a guy that is used to playing on a Playstation 3 to downgrade to Nintendo. That is not going to happen, for any race including Indian women. Even you have to admit that the pixelation is hard on the eyes.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Friday, July 22, 2011
I Suck
After seeing a major decline in readership since my blog posts have gone on dark jaunts into a world of negativity, I have finally decided to draw my "I hate the world" campaign of 2011 to a close and return to the self-deprecating humor that I am best known for.
So lately I've been looking in the mirror and wondering why I am only attractive to middle-aged to elderly white men. Ok, I'm not fugly, frumpy, or fat. So what is the deal? Ok, well my hair needs some serious work, but I always thought my wild and untempered locks to be my signature look. Perhaps my nose is a bit, well out there. My skin could be lighter. Hmmmmm...
It never occurred to me that it could be, well, my personality. I know what you are going to say, but you can stop right there. If you call me aggressive or intimidating, you can go ahead and bitch slap yourself right now. The only time I bring out fists of fury are on the following occasions, listed in order of importance:
1. When you are a douche bag guy that thinks he's hot shit for having gone to some lower tier professional school, all the while bragging for never having done the required reading, that does nothing but bang dumb pussy and brags about it;
2. If you are a scum bag intolerant that has taken a liking to saying dumb, uninformed, judgmental racial/religious epithets about other people based solely on appearance;
3. Crossing paths with one of those leeches of society that complains about the cost of life's necessities (rent, food, water, heat) and makes the state foot their exorbitant medical bills because they whine that they cannot afford medical insurance yet they walk around with an iphone, own several video gaming systems with a vast collection of games, and subscribe to a premium cable service.
I feel like the Robin Hood of Morality, Justice, and Whatever Else You Want To Call It whenever I dish out the haterade in these rare but real occasions. I live life with no regrets.
Filled with all this rage, when I signed up for a free online dating site recently, I seriously thought the men on it would read what I have to say and be like "wow, this woman has SPARK! Wabaaaaaam!" They'd magically be turned into some handsome, princely man of a man that'll want to take me out to such upscale restaurants like Portland City Grill or Ruth's Chris. They'd drool over the bilious comments I have to say about the evil in this world while spooning me tiny crumbs of creme brulee and requesting moist dish towels to rub on my head to bring down the redness that my anger often causes. They would... worship me.
But, nothing. Not even a single taker. "What the hell is wrong with ME!?" I thought. Then I took the site's personality quiz and saw the displeasing results:
... I'm boring. I apparently have the personality of a dimwitted spinster that likes to stay-in to darn socks and pray to the Lord Buddha in between taking naps. I'm saddened by this sudden discovery.
All this time, I thought that I was such an exciting, fun, creative, sexual creature. This goes to show that how we view ourselves is not exactly how the world perceives us. Oh well, fuck the world and fuck my life.
So lately I've been looking in the mirror and wondering why I am only attractive to middle-aged to elderly white men. Ok, I'm not fugly, frumpy, or fat. So what is the deal? Ok, well my hair needs some serious work, but I always thought my wild and untempered locks to be my signature look. Perhaps my nose is a bit, well out there. My skin could be lighter. Hmmmmm...
It never occurred to me that it could be, well, my personality. I know what you are going to say, but you can stop right there. If you call me aggressive or intimidating, you can go ahead and bitch slap yourself right now. The only time I bring out fists of fury are on the following occasions, listed in order of importance:
1. When you are a douche bag guy that thinks he's hot shit for having gone to some lower tier professional school, all the while bragging for never having done the required reading, that does nothing but bang dumb pussy and brags about it;
2. If you are a scum bag intolerant that has taken a liking to saying dumb, uninformed, judgmental racial/religious epithets about other people based solely on appearance;
3. Crossing paths with one of those leeches of society that complains about the cost of life's necessities (rent, food, water, heat) and makes the state foot their exorbitant medical bills because they whine that they cannot afford medical insurance yet they walk around with an iphone, own several video gaming systems with a vast collection of games, and subscribe to a premium cable service.
I feel like the Robin Hood of Morality, Justice, and Whatever Else You Want To Call It whenever I dish out the haterade in these rare but real occasions. I live life with no regrets.
Filled with all this rage, when I signed up for a free online dating site recently, I seriously thought the men on it would read what I have to say and be like "wow, this woman has SPARK! Wabaaaaaam!" They'd magically be turned into some handsome, princely man of a man that'll want to take me out to such upscale restaurants like Portland City Grill or Ruth's Chris. They'd drool over the bilious comments I have to say about the evil in this world while spooning me tiny crumbs of creme brulee and requesting moist dish towels to rub on my head to bring down the redness that my anger often causes. They would... worship me.
But, nothing. Not even a single taker. "What the hell is wrong with ME!?" I thought. Then I took the site's personality quiz and saw the displeasing results:
... I'm boring. I apparently have the personality of a dimwitted spinster that likes to stay-in to darn socks and pray to the Lord Buddha in between taking naps. I'm saddened by this sudden discovery.
All this time, I thought that I was such an exciting, fun, creative, sexual creature. This goes to show that how we view ourselves is not exactly how the world perceives us. Oh well, fuck the world and fuck my life.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
ATTENTION, Vegans on Facebook! The food you advertise makes me want to eat meat!
Friday, June 24, 2011
Pooches Over Smooches
Realizing that I've posted sexually-charged entries 3 times in a row this month, I've realized that I'm in desperate need for a distraction. Since this need for distraction has not been fulfilled by a beastly hunky man, I've decided to fill this void with a beast itself.
However, deciding on a dog to take home is a challenge especially in the 21st century. On top of considering breed, temperament, and gender of the dog, I now have to consider coat color, eye color, and size for fashion purposes. I really do not want to pull off a puppy faux pas. That would be a really expensive mistake to make!
I have since boiled everything down to five potential candidates. Here, I will present to you the dog and the look I'd like to pull off with the dog and YOU, my trusty readers can help me decide which one I should commit to for an approximate 10-15, the average lifespan of a lovable pooch.
The Oedipus Rex
Loyal and protective, but prone towards violence close to a blinding rage. Has a regal air about him though not necessarily purebred due to inbreeding.
The Paddington
Dye job not included though recommended as black and white matches with everything. Loveable but dimwitted. Tends to attract children and women that like "cutesy" things so not advisable for straight single keeping-it-real type of women.
The Butch
Extremely slow and lazy. The Butch's aggressive look would tell onlookers that owner means business. Fat so doubles as a sidewalk clearing machine for runners that enjoy personal space.
The Madonna
High maintenance though at first sight does not appear to be so. Curly hairs have dual functionality. Not only aesthetically displeasing but can also work as a mop. Fits easily in purses for portability.
The Anthony Weiner
Douchey yet dignified with a touch of neanderthal-like sexual urges. More useful for males having trouble controlling their boners so can use the dog as a means to cover crotch area while running, eating, walking, working, and sleeping.
However, deciding on a dog to take home is a challenge especially in the 21st century. On top of considering breed, temperament, and gender of the dog, I now have to consider coat color, eye color, and size for fashion purposes. I really do not want to pull off a puppy faux pas. That would be a really expensive mistake to make!
I have since boiled everything down to five potential candidates. Here, I will present to you the dog and the look I'd like to pull off with the dog and YOU, my trusty readers can help me decide which one I should commit to for an approximate 10-15, the average lifespan of a lovable pooch.
The Oedipus Rex
The Paddington
The Butch
The Madonna
The Anthony Weiner
Sex Jokes: The Ultimate First Date Blunder
Men have their fantasies about women's locker rooms so it's no surprise that I have a few myself about the men's. I always pictured men homo-erotically whipping each other with wet towels in between the exchanging of the "newest" quarry of sex jokes. This, I imagine, is not a huge leap from what really happens since sex jokes tend to captivate the male mind easily in addition to not requiring much brain juice to create to begin with.
In fact, all sex jokes are formulated as follows:
1. Pick an everyday setting, such as a hotel lobby or bar.
2. Describe a "hot" woman, preferably one that is realistically unattainable.
3. End with a sexual act.
So a sex joke is basically a dramatic reading version of pornography, masked in comedic undertones so that they can be said in public.
I always thought it was strange that being as funny as I am, I could only return a sex joke with a cold stare back and possibly a shudder. Probably because the endings, the supposed punchlines, are so predictable. Just like porn. Ok, and sex.
In fact, all sex jokes are formulated as follows:
1. Pick an everyday setting, such as a hotel lobby or bar.
2. Describe a "hot" woman, preferably one that is realistically unattainable.
3. End with a sexual act.
So a sex joke is basically a dramatic reading version of pornography, masked in comedic undertones so that they can be said in public.
I always thought it was strange that being as funny as I am, I could only return a sex joke with a cold stare back and possibly a shudder. Probably because the endings, the supposed punchlines, are so predictable. Just like porn. Ok, and sex.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Awkward Family Movie Nights
Once upon a time, movie nights were the holy grail of quality family time. My parents would pop in some damsel-in-distress VHS tape in the player and without the foresight of seeing how Disney was going to ruin their daughter's perception of men for the rest of her life, would have a chance to exchange a little quiet for the brain drain that was 1990s G-rated movies. Nowadays, as a twenty-something, I just wish that I could revert to those good old days when wanting to watch Beauty and the Beast three times in a row and picturing myself transforming some beastly abusive guy into prince charming was the norm.
At first, with a little help with the availability of Hindi films via satellite, I continued to be in the safe zone, aka the Bollywood zone. I'd sing along in foreign tongue with my parents that could never seem to ever get too tired of the inflated romance in every plot line. And that was A-Okay in my book because to my relief, other than the occasional nuzzling between hero and heroine, there is never anything sexually pictured or implied that would want me to go into the other room and tie a noose around my neck.
But now, my parents have decided to sign up for HBO and the experience has been abysmal. At first my tactic was always to "pretend" that I did not know what was happening as two people dry humped in the screen before me. I often did this by blurring my vision a little and starting to count until the scene was over. I find it similar to counting sheep, if you are ever caught in that predicament and would like to try out this technique yourself. Be forewarned that this may permanently damage your vision. (Although this may not be so bad if you never went to sit through something like that again.)
I have since found it necessary to expand upon my arsenal of tactics, and as a result, possibly handling such delicate situations with greater maturity. One of them was to just ask someone to change the channel. The problem with this approach, however, is the fact that by asking for the channel to be changed, you are indirectly acknowledging to your Old World parents that you know what sex is and may even have had a lot of it. I mean, a lot. So I had to modify this technique a little, by saying I'd like the channel changed BECAUSE there was some crappy Grey's Anatomy rerun you want to catch a glimpse of or wanted to know what the latest score of that darn lacrosse game. Genius, I know.
Other than that, my most powerful technique is something I like to call "The Dodge," and is not related to dodgeball in any way. This is when the movie of choice is chosen ahead of time, and is one that I know very well. This way, I can avoid being in the living room when the sexually heightened scenes occur and make it seem like I really did need to use the bathroom or really did need to go into the kitchen to grab a glass of OJ in that very moment Diego Rivera is caught graphically boning his sister-in-law's cunt in Frida or when Kate shows off more than a sapphire pendant to Leo in the Titanic. Double genius, I know.
I need to get this published in some scholarly journal somewhere.
At first, with a little help with the availability of Hindi films via satellite, I continued to be in the safe zone, aka the Bollywood zone. I'd sing along in foreign tongue with my parents that could never seem to ever get too tired of the inflated romance in every plot line. And that was A-Okay in my book because to my relief, other than the occasional nuzzling between hero and heroine, there is never anything sexually pictured or implied that would want me to go into the other room and tie a noose around my neck.
But now, my parents have decided to sign up for HBO and the experience has been abysmal. At first my tactic was always to "pretend" that I did not know what was happening as two people dry humped in the screen before me. I often did this by blurring my vision a little and starting to count until the scene was over. I find it similar to counting sheep, if you are ever caught in that predicament and would like to try out this technique yourself. Be forewarned that this may permanently damage your vision. (Although this may not be so bad if you never went to sit through something like that again.)
I have since found it necessary to expand upon my arsenal of tactics, and as a result, possibly handling such delicate situations with greater maturity. One of them was to just ask someone to change the channel. The problem with this approach, however, is the fact that by asking for the channel to be changed, you are indirectly acknowledging to your Old World parents that you know what sex is and may even have had a lot of it. I mean, a lot. So I had to modify this technique a little, by saying I'd like the channel changed BECAUSE there was some crappy Grey's Anatomy rerun you want to catch a glimpse of or wanted to know what the latest score of that darn lacrosse game. Genius, I know.
Other than that, my most powerful technique is something I like to call "The Dodge," and is not related to dodgeball in any way. This is when the movie of choice is chosen ahead of time, and is one that I know very well. This way, I can avoid being in the living room when the sexually heightened scenes occur and make it seem like I really did need to use the bathroom or really did need to go into the kitchen to grab a glass of OJ in that very moment Diego Rivera is caught graphically boning his sister-in-law's cunt in Frida or when Kate shows off more than a sapphire pendant to Leo in the Titanic. Double genius, I know.
I need to get this published in some scholarly journal somewhere.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
The Women's Locker Room
Men, you know all those fantasies you have about what goes on in the locker room? Well I'm here to tell you that it's all true... and more.
Must I tell you about the time when a fellow gym goer lost a diamond earring when she took off her shirt and her bare DD breast implants were bouncing around as she frantically started looking for it? Or the other time that two cheerleader types with the hip to waist ratio in the negatives decided to share a shower because all of the others were taken?
Though this may be a little tantalizing to hear, just as what Clint Eastwood would say the good always comes with the bad and the ugly. Sure you'd enjoy watching a couple of breasts the size of casaba melons (and a silicone-type firmness to match) bounce around, but how about trying to watch while having your view blocked by a handful of old hairy Asian women that are not shy to show off their ass wrinkles? Or trying to make out the silhouettes of the two playboy bunnies lathering each other up behind the textured glass, only to be distracted by the middle-aged woman praising the good lord because her period finally came even though she was sleeping with a man that she has only known for a month?
Yes, lots of things happen in the women's locker rooms. It could be sexy, it could be nasty, and most days I cannot tell the difference.
Must I tell you about the time when a fellow gym goer lost a diamond earring when she took off her shirt and her bare DD breast implants were bouncing around as she frantically started looking for it? Or the other time that two cheerleader types with the hip to waist ratio in the negatives decided to share a shower because all of the others were taken?
Though this may be a little tantalizing to hear, just as what Clint Eastwood would say the good always comes with the bad and the ugly. Sure you'd enjoy watching a couple of breasts the size of casaba melons (and a silicone-type firmness to match) bounce around, but how about trying to watch while having your view blocked by a handful of old hairy Asian women that are not shy to show off their ass wrinkles? Or trying to make out the silhouettes of the two playboy bunnies lathering each other up behind the textured glass, only to be distracted by the middle-aged woman praising the good lord because her period finally came even though she was sleeping with a man that she has only known for a month?
Yes, lots of things happen in the women's locker rooms. It could be sexy, it could be nasty, and most days I cannot tell the difference.
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