Porocrom’s Crappaper

A wise man once said “Treat her rough, get some muff”. When I heard this I immediately dismissed it as codswallop, but last night my skepticism was shattered by the events that transpired.

There is a bar near where I live called ‘Phil’s’. It is dark, dingy, and smells of feet and hockey equipment at the end of a day-long tournament. However, it has $1.75 drinks, so we go. I went with my buddy Nathan; my roommate and wingman extrodinaire Kevin; Virginia, my former lab partner, and her friends. It was partway into the night when I found myself beset by Kevin and Nathan shouting at me to go hit on this random girl in a pink shirt. I protested that I am not ‘that guy’, which they did their best to refute using the logical tools available to them (‘Yes you are!’).

While I was being verbally pummeled for my lack of will to bother random girls in bars, a group of ladies came up to talk to Nathan, having apparently met him some time before. To get my two harping buddies to leave me alone, I decided to undecoriously perform a suicide mission on one of the girls there so they would leave me alone. To compound the inevitable failure, I decided to be the biggest jerk I could possibly imitate. I made nothing but disparaging comments about her every statement, ridiculed her in front of her friends… I was theatrically rude.

Nothing in my many years of bar-going could prepare me for what happened next.

Far from being offended or discouraged from further conversation, this girl (who we shall call Cyndi) was intrigued by my ruthless and irreverent banter. The more I berated and disparaged her, the more interested she seemed. I’m pretty sure that if I had punched her she would have gone down on me.

I ask you people, what kind of sense does it make that being nice, courteous, complimentary and generally decent is a turn off? If I met a girl who upon meeting me immediately began talking shit, it would be SO OVER. Why should I have to pretend to be an asshole just to get the time of day and a dance?

The story doesn’t end as well as you might think: we spent a good portion of the evening grinding each other into oblivion on the dance floor, then her roomies (who were giving me some serious stink-eye) had to go home, so she left. I did get her number though… worship me for I am your god.

Last Saturday, I went to a club. When I say “a club” I mean “the club”, and when I say “club” I mean “a pigsty where all men between the ages of 15 and 80 and some women between the ages of 16-17 congregate”. I live in a village of 3,000 people (when we’re being invaded) and this particular club services an area of about 5,000 people (if you count sheep to be human). Therefore, you can understand the dismal situation in which I was in. The general quality of the male population ranges between “sheepfucker” and “homeless person”. The quality of the women is somewhat good, with some glaringly magnificent exceptions. Most women shower, too.

So, I went to the club with a few friends and we walked up to the entrance. Standing there was a fat whore who could obviously not get any tricks so she decided to make a career change. She asked me for four euros, to which I promptly replied “What the fuck? Are you out of your fucking mind? Look where you are, you skanky ho”. She did not relent and threatened to call security, but then she remembered there was no security because the place was a fucking hole. I felt extra generous that night so I gave her the money so she could get something to eat for the next month (never mind that she could very well live merely on her extraneous fat) and proceeded to not bite her. So generally I was very very nice.

We walked inside and sat at a table. The DJ was awful, the songs he played were irrelevant to one another and he synched them with all the grace of someone with Parkinson’s. If he could at least get the beat right, I think he could have been really good at scratching. The dude who handled lighting also sucked, but what do you expect, he’s probably Albanian (Albanians are to Greece what Mexicans are to the US). The people were invariably of the general variety I described above.

Being so fascinated with the general atmosphere in this magnificent nightclub, I turned my gaze to the air conditioning, which appeared not to be connected to an external unit. Then I proceeded to read about thermodynamics and entropy on my cell phone (I love Wikipedia) in hope that I would discover an air conditioning system without external units so I could put a bomb in it and wipe all these people out (no dice, btw, the second law of thermodynamics doesn’t allow it).

Disheartened, I raised my eyes and beheld a stunningly beautiful woman on the table across mine. She was tall, with blond hair and hazel eyes, and her body was shapely and with huge boobs. I stared at her for a while, and she, becoming aware of my gaze on her, retaliated with unrelenting staringness. I decided that time was of the essence, and that there was nary a moment to waste. Immediately, I stood up and walked towards her. Approaching her, I said:

I: Hi, don’t I know you from somewhere?
She: (Coldly) No, you don’t.
I: Are you sure? You look really familiar.
She: (Frowning) That trick is old, no, we don’t know each other.
I: Wtf bitch, stfu. Being a whore doesn’t make you an expert on tricks. Oh wait, it does.

I didn’t really say that last line, but at that point I was very pissed off. Her “did you think of that line or did you read it on a cave wall?” attitude was fucking annoying, and if a woman talked to me like that I’d beat her into submission. As you can see, it had never happened before, so I was baffled. If nothing else, I hadn’t been rude or anything, and she had. I decided to show nothing of what I thought, and exact my terrible revenge upon her.

I: Isn’t your friend’s name Joanne (actual name changed to protect the other hot chick)?
She: (Surprised) Yes, how did you know?
I: Weren’t you in the same class as her?
She: Yes, I was.
I: Oh, we went on the class trip together. (These trips are customary on the last year of highschool in Greece and typically last seven days)
She: Oh, you’re from [my village]?
I: Yep, that’s right.
She: (Smiling) I don’t remember you, but we didn’t hang out that much, we had kind of a feud with you guys (laughs).
I: (Smiling) Yeah, I remember.

I am guessing she felt like a total bitch at that point, because she realised I actually did know her (obviously) and she was quite into me, since she had been staring at me before I went over. I was quite pleased with this turn of events, and a “HAHA, PWNT, BITCH” almost escaped my lips, but I managed to retain my courteous and friendly disposition.

I: (Half-jokingly) Well, your teacher always blamed us for anything that happened, and you girls were always late in the morning.
She: (Laughing) Yeah, we always got up half an hour past when we were supposed to.
(I say nothing, silence ensues and becomes awkward, and she is clearly expecting me to ask her out)
I: (Smiling) Well, that’s what I wanted to ask you. Nice to have met you, bye.
(I walk away, not waiting for her reply and bask in my pwnsive victory)

I am assuming she regretted being such a bitch, because there were 2 men and 3 other women in their group, and the men looked like they had been hit by a train carrying ugly. In the wake of this devastating victory, I decided to hit on a friend of mine, but she was very receptive and not at all a bitch, so there’s nothing to write about that. he rest of the night went pretty uneventfully (if you exclude the fact that I had sex with the village twins, they’re not very bright but there’s two of them) so there’s not much else to say, except that concurrence in sex = nice.

If you have a blog and can’t find anything to write, read a woman’s magazine. They’re so full of crap that they’re guaranteed to make you puke and share your hate for them with the world. This is the case of this post. I just found one of my sister’s magazines lying around, so I thought “I’ll just read this for a bit, maybe it will give me some insight in women”. Well, the only insight it gave me is that women (actually it’s just that particular writer, but I figure if that magazine stereotypes men and sells that well, I’ll stereotype women, it can’t hurt) are unbelievably and mind-bogglingly stupid.

It was a column about sex advice or sex situations (I doubt that even the writer knows exactly) that dealt with what happens if you do certain things (or people). For example, one of the cases was the “pity lay”, where you have sex with someone you don’t really want to, just because you kinda like them. Her conclusion was that it is very wrong and that “you come to when someone on you yells something like ‘I’m coming’ and you feel so relieved it’s over that you will almost want to kiss him — but you don’t”. That’s cool, I can agree with that. I don’t enjoy sex with women I don’t want to have sex with either. Very well so far.

In the next case, this piece of shit, this unbelievable dreck goes on to say something far more preposterous. Before I tell you what it is, I would like to note that I hate this magazine and its ilk. I would not even wipe my ass with it because my sphincter would be so offended that it would close up and kill me of shit poisoning. These abominations are even printed on glossy paper which takes forever to biodegrade. Anyway, the next case is about the “desperate lay”. In this case, a desperate woman gives a desperate man permission to do the unthinkable and have sex with her, even though normally she would be way too good for him, but, she is as we said, desperate. Wake-up call, bitch, if you were all that hot you wouldn’t be desperate in the first place, but I’ll let this one slide.

Anyway, the woman has sex with the man and realises that he just makes her give him lots of blowjobs and leaves her and never calls back. Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you? How low must your IQ be to think this? First of all, you ignorant, ignorant piece of shit of a writer, what kind of a desperate man would never call a woman he just had sex with back? Secondly, does it never cross your mind, before so ignorantly assuming that all men are evil, that there is a chance a desperate guy would be, you know, actually nice? And to top it all off, since when is sex something a woman gives? When two people have sex, they (hopefully) both consent to it, and they (again hopefully) both enjoy it. I fucking detest the notion that men beg women for sex, and women, being the noble creatures that they are, find it in their hearts to grace some poor man with their infinite kindness and allow him to have sex with them, something that women don’t enjoy at all, and, in fact, find somewhat distasteful.

Wake the fuck up. It’s the same for both men and women. Both the man and the woman were desperate. They had a night of desperate sex and probably both enjoyed it. If you know you’re not going to like the sex because the man is desperate, why not just spend the three fucking dollars to buy yourself a dildo and spare us the fucking crap? I must e-mail this bitch and give her a piece of my mind.

The rest of the article is about the same. It goes on endlessly talking about women as if they’re all hot and smart and wonderful people and men are the walking scum of the earth and they don’t deserve any woman. I’m thinking of rallying up all the men and agreeing not to have sex with any woman that has these views. Hey, she’s too good to have sex with men anyway. Or maybe the writer is a lesbian, in which case, forget I said anything.

Today, as I was journeying deep in the vast jungle that is the Intarweb, I came upon a site called Date me, Natalie!. It is about a guy who attempts to get Natalie Portman to date him through word-of-mouth and clever internet marketing. Seeing as how this blog already has reached fifteen billion people (don’t believe the counter on the side over there, it’s lying) in the known universe, I decided to make my plea to Kate Beckinsale public. Date me, Kate!

Much like the Natalie Portman guy, I also have seen you and I think we are compatible. It is not anything romantic or anything, because I know you are married and have a daughter, but I wouldn’t object to hot, sweaty sex either. I just know that we have much in common, because I know you very well from all those parts you played, which are totally how you are in reality, and not at all the imagination of the screenwriters. For example, do you remember how in that movie, Laurel Canyon, your boyfriend didn’t respect you or treat you right or nothing and you decided to fuck his mother? I would never do that to you, Kate. Also from your movie Shooting Fish I know that you like clever, handsome guys, because you can learn all about an actress from the parts she plays, and I am totally clever and handsome and have a million pounds stashed in my basement.

I am friends with many women, many of which are prettier than you, but you are the one I would like to date, because from all your movies I think you are my soul mate. You are strong and resourceful (as seen in Van Helsing) and also romantic and very cute (Serendipity). You are all I am looking for in a woman, and also I know you like to party (The Last Days of Disco). I totally like that too!

You are so different and special from any woman I have ever met (or not met, for that matter). Even though I have never met you I know I am the man you have been looking for all your life. Other women are too snobbish, immature, shallow and/or ugly, whereas you are none of those things (as far as I know, which, admittedly, is not very far at all). I have singled you out of all the women in the world because I saw some pictures and I think you are the only woman in the world worthy of someone posting on a website about.

If you don’t want to date me, Kate, that’s fine. I know that you will always love me in your heart and that your husband is the only thing preventing you from marrying me. Some day, mr. Wiseman will meet with an unfortunate accident, and then we can be forever together, my love!

I was having a rather enjoyable discussion with some friends recently, when the argument that the woman is the one who chooses the man came up. I can see how one might arrive at this fallacy, if they take into account the following scenario:
Man sees woman.
Man talks to woman.
Woman either spreads legs, or slaps man in the face.
At this point, many argue that the woman has made the choice, which implies that the man had no choice in the matter. This portrays men as horny, sex-crazed beasts that go around talking to any female they encounter, not even caring if said female belongs to the same species as they. This, members of the alleged jury, is a non sequitur.

I know women that BEG to be chosen. They go to clubs and nobody comes to talk to them. I ask you, is that choice? Even the most hideously deformed man is free to try his luck with a member of the opposite gender, regardless of whether he succeeds or not. Women, on the other hand, are not able to do this, as it is not considered “normal” for a woman to go up to a man in a club and initiate conversation with him.

The argument I am making is that, in fact, men have a lot more choice than women. If I go out to a club and there are a hundred women there, I have a hundred to choose from. Even if a woman doesn’t notice me, I will make her notice me by talking to her. Women have to choose from at most two or three men that come to talk to them, out of the hundred or so that may be in the aforementioned place of social gathering. Also, if a woman likes someone who, for whatever reason, has not noticed her, she is shit out of luck. Good luck choosing him, girl.

Closing, I would like to ask of the members of the fair sex never to say this kind of bullshit again in my presence, else I shall be forced to pretend to listen to them while I lose all respect towards them I may have gained. Thank you.