I had a request for this rant, and hopefully it helps some dear friends in their mission to find a great woman.
In a recent discussion with some male counterparts, it was brought to my attention that men are fuck wads. I should probably warn you now (after dropping the "f" bomb in my second sentence), this rant is going to be vulgar. If you're a sensitive, panty waist bitch, quit reading and go back to petting your 57 cats.
Evidently, there is a preconceived notion that girls are supposed to be frail, weak, dependent on their "better half", and polite.
Fuck that. Girls don't roll like that. I think I probably am speaking for about 90% of my ladies out there. If not, well, you're probably unhappily married and miserable right now.
Let's clear a few things up for you, gentlemen:
I don't shave my legs everyday. That's bullshit. Do you know how time consuming it is to stand in the shower (on one foot), lather up about six feet worth of leg, find a razor that's not dull, nick yourself in unmentionable parts, and then get blood spots all over your cute, pink, fluffy towel? Of course not, you only shave that tiny portion on your pin head that takes about six strokes to cover. Prickly legs don't bother me, and they're attached to me. If you're disgusted by that, go take a look at that nasty ass patch of back hair located right around your tailbone, you fucking yedi. What the fuck is that? It looks like you're using a camel for a back brace.
If you're sharing a bed with me, you'd better be wearing a helmet, ear plugs, and a cup. I am a very violent girl in my dreams. If you're not careful, you will be donkey punched. I also snore. Like a chainsaw cutting a redwood. Go ahead, try to roll me over. You'd better be wearing a cup. I throw a mean right uppercut to the loins during my peaceful slumber. As a precaution, just go home. My bed is for me and my dog only.
My dog will always be the number one man in my life (second only to my daddy). He is the perfect companion, which is more than I can say about you. He doesn't tell me not to wear that shirt, because I look like a two bit whore in it. He stares at me with loving eyes, whether he's dropping a deuce, or sharing my pillow. He comforts me when I cry, instead of saying, "You need a backrub that will turn into something to benefit me. What about my needs? I know you're crying, but this is all about me. I'm amazing. You shouldn't cry, because I'm fucking awesome. You'd be nothing without me. ME ME ME ME ME."
I don't give a shit about your past supermodel girlfriends. If I cared, I would have friended them on facebook and stalked them until they put out a restraining order on my ass. Shut the fuck up about them. They obviously didn't work out for you, or you wouldn't be trying to get in my pants now.
I burp and fart freely. I will not step out of the room, or put myself in extreme discomfort so that you can believe in your tiny, pea-sized brain, that girls don't do these things. We do. A lot. And it's hilarious. It's usually hilarious, because when you do it, it's weak, and I know I can do it louder and better. If that grosses you out, well, you're probably a homosexual, and weren't looking to pursue anything more than a mall buddy.
I cuss like a sailor. If you don't fucking like it, go fuck yourself, mother fucking piece of shit. Words like, "Oh Dear", or "Goodness Gracious" only come out in the presence of clergy. I don't feel the need to censor myself around someone I'm dating. "Well, it's not lady-like", you say? Well guess what? I'm not trying to be a fucking lady, bitch, so I don't have to be lady-like.
I do shit girls aren't supposed to do. I fix toilets, snake drains, fix cars, change tires, carry a gun, hook up tv's, catch lizards, poke snakes with sticks (just to see them lunge), get dirty, break a nail, clean pools, do yard work, and beat the shit out of a punching bag. Know what this means? I don't need you for ANYTHING. I keep you around to use as a puppet, or arm candy (depending on how ugly you are). Be grateful that you're lucky enough to be in my presence.
I don't wake up looking nearly as hot as I did the night before. So what if I have crusted drool down the entire left side of my face? My hair is perpendicular to my head? Perfect. Take a picture. My retainers bother you? Sorry for having straight teeth. My breath smells like road kill? No shit, I was snoring all night. You don't like my glasses? Neither do I. When I put them on, all I see is your ugly mug. Why are you seeing me this way in the morning, anyways? I thought I told you to leave in a previous section of ths blog.
I don't work out to impress you or anyone else in this world. I work out so I continue to look smokin' hot for myself, because let's be honest, I'm the only one who really matters, right? I put on make up and dress in nice clothes because it makes me feel good, not because I'm whoring myself out. I have, in the words of Ludacris, "big titties and a matching ass". I worked hard for these things, you'd better believe I enjoy looking at them, why not wear clothes that enhance the fruits of my labor?
However, I'm not always going to be wearing red-carpet-ready clothing. I have days when I'm busting my ass around my house. I can pull off the look of cut-offs, a Captain Tony's Saloon T-shirt, and Sperrys. I don't always wear two pounds of make-up, either. This doesn't mean I've given up, this simply means I'm working hard so I can play later. Perhaps you should get used to this concept.
Just because my job doesn't pay me $800,000 a month, doesn't mean I have to find a new job. Quit trying to make me quit. Sure, I'll whine about it now and again. I'm a girl, I'm entitled to that. If you don't want to hear it, leave. Moose is more than willing to hear me out. I love my line of work. You couldn't handle doing what I do. Not that it's hard, you're just a puss. I was "wealthy" once, as you rich folk say. I really didn't see the allure. It didn't make me a better person because I could make it rain. As a matter of fact, the more money and material things I had, the shittier I felt. I'm perfectly happy having to scrape by on two jobs. I have my pride. You REALLY overpaid for that shirt, by the way. I don't fly first class anymore. First class = first to die in a crash. Besides, I like the looks I get from those fucking idiots who paid four times what I paid to arrive at the same destination as me, at the same exact time as me. Why don't you just go flush the rest of your Benjamins down that fancy, dancy airplane toilet? I'm not impressed that you're rich. If you're bragging about it and flaunting it, you're just proving to me that you're an even bigger douche than I had originally thought....And you're obviously overcompensating for something.
I am not meek or in distress. I don't need you telling me that you are enriching my life with your presence. No, you're not. You're actually hindering me from fixing the toilet and going to the shooting range and drag strip. I am very in touch with my emotions, and refuse to depend on anyone else for emotional support. I don't need you to coddle me and try to fix me in any way. That's what a psychiatrist is for. Besides, I'm a fucking bad ass, and I don't need fixed.
So men, this is how women really work. If you think you can really handle this, good luck. We're all awesome, and I think it's time you just shut the fuck up and enjoy our company, bitches. Peace.
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