Tag Archives: douche

Mr. Class Ring

“I’m a woman, Mary.  I can be as contrary as I choose.”

~ Dowager Countess of Grantham, played by the illustrious Maggie Smith

I actually don’t believe in dealbreakers.  This may surprise you, since I can be pretty brutal on this blog, but, let’s face it, in reality, when I truly fancy someone, he can do no wrong.  He could sleep in a bunny suit and worship a clay statue of a muppet as the one true god, and it’s highly likely that I’d find it endearing if I like the guy enough.

What can I say?  I’m a big softy at heart.

However, that being said, if I DON’T fancy the poor hapless thing, there’s no saving him from my ridicule and scorn.

And unfortunately for you unlucky many, whom I don’t fancy in the least, there are is a long list of things that would preclude you from seeing me naked — no matter how much alcohol you pour into me.

This list includes but is not limited to the following:

  • Class ring – This is speaks to a unique form of bro-douchery.  Just… don’t.
  • Puka shell necklace – Do I really need to explain this one?
  • Big diamondy balls of bling in the ears – This is a girl’s domain.  Back the eff off.
  • Longer nails than me – That’s just icky.
  • Higher heels than me – Yes, this has happened to me before.  I’d rather not talk about it.
  • He tells me that I’m fat – You’d be surprised how often this happens.
  • Matching tracksuit – This is doubly repulsive if the tracksuit is white.  (Yes, Joey, I’m talking to YOU.)
  • Gold chain necklaces – I shudder at the thought.
  • Flat-bill baseball caps – I’m a bit of a baseball cap snob.  I once dated a guy just because I liked his perfectly worn, fitted baseball cap.  I never let him take it off.  Ever.
  • The deep V-neck – Call me old-fashioned, but I find it more than a little disconcerting when a man sports more cleavage and a more plunging neckline than myself.  My barely-there-boobies really take it personally.

A significant portion of my dealbreakers consists of items related to man-jewelry.  I can safely say that I am generally opposed to almost all forms of man-jewelry.  Accessorize cautiously, lads.  Very very cautiously.

Merci buckets to Julia, who is the inspiration for this post/rant.  She is a phenomenal lady who manages to bring all the boys to the yard while dressed in a fabulous shiny flame-retardant lizard suit, and I admire her greatly.

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Mr. Seventy-Two Thousand

I know, I know, “douche” is technically a french word.  I’ll not delve into the origins of the word, nor will I contest its anglophone “urban” connotation.  Long-time readers have surely read about my brushes with parisian douche-toolery, but I hope you didn’t expect my accounts of douchetards would cease now that I’m no longer an expat living amidst Paris’ unique form of douchery.

Au contraire.

Let’s face it.  Douchery is an international phenomenon that is hardly limited by national borders, by urban-rural divides, or by class lines.  Part of the anthropological analysis of any city’s dating scene must therefore include some treatment of The Douche Problem.

Before coming to D.C., I’d heard tales of high levels of douchery in the city, most likely due to the fact that it is, after all, the national capital and, therefore, contains high concentrations of people who live, work, breathe and bleed politics.  I can’t say that this surprised me at all, but I was still in that euphoric honeymoon phase of my relationship with America, and I was reluctant to come to terms with anything that could possibly shake my faith that my interactions with the opposite sex here must, by default, be better than my experiences in Paris.

But, my first night out in D.C., I came face to face with what I now call the D.C. Doucheoisie (shout-out to my buddy, Andrew Stillman, for coining this term).

At the time, my girlfriend and I were out and about in a part of town whose nightlife demographic was well-known for being… young.  Undergraduate and recent-grad age.

< Confession for the sake of context : I am NOT that age.  Not by a long shot. >

While we matronly damsels were awaiting our shining carriage to whisk us homeward, one young lad of such age approached me and stated very matter-of-factly:

“I like your jacket.”

I was not wearing a jacket.

It was the height of summer, and the city was the approximate temperature of some of the deeper bowels of hell.

He then proceeded to ask me to accompany him to his place for drinks and, apparently “a good time”.

There really was no transition between his comment on my non-existent jacket and his transparent proposition.

While I admired his ballsiness, I was very keen on going home to bed (it was far past my bedtime), so I gave him a very simple response:

“No, thank you.  I’m too old for you.”

But he was not to be deterred.

Mr. Seventy-Two Thousand : “No, you’re not!  How old are you?  What, 25 or something?  Listen, I am 23 years old, and I earn $72 000 per year!”

Man-shopper’s brain : “Oh merciful christ, I can’t believe this is happening.”

Man-shopper’s mouth : “Oh, honey, that’s not the issue here.”

Mr. Seventy-Two Thousand : “Well, what else could it possibly be?”

I was gobsmacked.

I walked away at this point, but instead of “Oh, honey, that’s not the issue here,” this is what my response SHOULD have been:

” How much of that seventy-two thousand

are you willing to part with tonight? “

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Mr. Geisha Fantasy

Even after all this time, the most popular post on my blog is still Mr. Asian Fetish.  Apparently, and perhaps for good reason, this is a hot button topic on the interwebs.  Frankly, I have been reluctant to write about it again because I don’t want to give the impression that being Asian or being fetishized is the sole or primary component of my identity.

However, sometimes I think that parisian men can’t seem to think otherwise.

I recently encountered somebody whose exotification of my slanty-eyes got me so riled that he left me no choice but to revisit the topic of the Asian fetish.

To sum up my previous post on it:

  1. I don’t think of it as a fetish.  I think of it as a personal preference that may sometimes manifest itself as broader stereotyping.
  2. I don’t mind if I’m your physical type for whatever reason, but come on, fool, don’t be an asstard about it.
  3. Parisian men are usually asstards about it.

After being waylaid by Mr. Geisha Fantasy on my way out of a cafe the other day  I still stand by all three points.  I cite the following excerpts from our conversation.

He commented on my accent:

  • Mr. Geisha Fantasy : “You speak French with a Japanese accent.”
  • Man-shopper’s brain : “Kill me now.”
  • Man-shopper’s mouth : “I’m American.  That’s like saying you speak English with a white person accent.”
  • Mr. Geisha Fantasy : “No.  You do.  I am telling you.  I know what I’m talking about.  I lived in Japan.”
  • Man-shopper’s brain : “I hate my life sometimes.”

He has, I suspect, absolutely no idea what he is talking about:

  • Mr. Geisha Fantasy : “I like to work out too.  I lived in Japan, you know.”
  • Man-shopper’s brain : “What the hell is going on here??”

He clearly has some thrilling insights about pan-Asian uniformity:

  • Mr. Geisha Fantasy : “You Asians are all kind of the same, aren’t you?”
  • Man-shopper’s brain : “@$#%^~*!!”
  • Man-shopper’s mouth : “Yes.  Of course.  You’re right.  We are all the same.  You can switch me out with any other Asian.  We’d be having this same conversation.”
  • Man-shopper’s brain : “He MUST understand sarcasm, right??”
  • Mr. Geisha Fantasy : “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean!”
  • Man-shopper’s brain : “Oooor… not.

He likes an Asian in red:

  • Mr. Geisha Fantasy : “You obviously like brightly colored dresses.  You should wear bright red lipstick.  I know lots of Japanese women who wear red lipstick.”
  • Man-shopper’s brain : “Seriously?  SERIOUSLY??”

What a charmer.

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Mssrs. Greatest Hits

This post is dedicated entirely to the assclownery, tooldouchery, and general rudeness that men have thrown at me over the past few years of my expatriate adventure.  It’s unclear whether they wanted to get into my pants, offend me, or just wanted a laugh, but that is hardly the point.  The point is that they just don’t know how to treat a lady.

I’m not going to commentate much here, as these little sound bytes speak for themselves.  Below I have compiled the worst opening overtures from complete strangers.  Off the street…  At the gym…  At the bar… In the supermarket…

  • “Are you a lesbian?  I assumed that you were because of your arms.”
  • “How much?”
  • “You are eating SO MUCH.”
  • “I’m in a band.”
  • “It’s not ladylike to order beer.”
  • “You sound unattractive.”
  • <pointing to my beer>  “You’re actually going to drink THAT??”
  • “Hey!  You!  Chinese girl!”
  • “Soooo…. yes or no?”  <eyebrow wiggle>
  • “You’re Lucy Liu!”
  • “Hey!  Whore!”
  • “You know, it’s pathetic to sit by yourself.”
  • “Hey!  Yoo hoo!  Oy!  Hey!  Hey!  Hey!  HEY!  HEY YOU!  OVER HERE!  COME OVER HERE!!!  What the…  YOU FUCKING WHORE!!!!”
  • With my back to them, guys have tugged my hair so that I will turn around.
  • Guys have thrown stuff (water bottles, orange peels, wads of paper…) at me in order to get my attention.
  • One guy ran up to me and screamed in my face.

Whatever happened to “Excuse me”, “Hi”, and “Hello”?

Anyone in the United States want to offer me a job?  I can start immediately.

 

P.S.  To the guy who spit on me : how dare you?!

P.P.S.  To the guy on the metro who licked me : EW.

P.P.P.S.  To the guy who tried to slap my face : I will find you.  I will kill you.

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Mr. Yankees Fan

Warning: Pointless rant coming up…

For some unknown reason, I see a plethora of Parisian idiots sporting Yankees gear.  I take issue with this for the following reasons:

  • These fools have no idea that the NY logo is the logo of a baseball team.  Many of them think that it stands for New York, that they are rockin the coolest American shit on this side of the Atlantic.  Most of them probably have no idea what baseball is.
  • It just looks stupid.  Picture it.  Pansy-ass Parisian gangsta-wannabe wearing a sideways Yankee cap, in his skinny jeans, thinking “Putain, c’est mortel!”
  • You ONLY ever see the Yankees logo.  It just creams my corn that I don’t see a Giants logo anywhere.  The French seem to fixate on the strangest things to associate with America.  They embrace Oreos, for example, but are physically incapable of making a decent chocolate chip cookie.

So, men, if you are French and own Yankees gear, please don’t bother talking to me.  I don’t run around San Jose in a Stade Français jersey, and I don’t pretend to be the #1 Bordeaux fan when I’m in New York, so you should afford American teams the same respect please and stop being such a poser.

Oh, I’m sorry, I meant to say, such a poseur.

Next, please.

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Ms. Speed Dater (Part 2)

For those of you who missed my first attempt at speed dating (or “soft dating,” as they say here in Paris), you can catch up here.  It was a complete failure, and I was hoping that attempt #2 last night would fare better.

Well, “better” is a strong word.  The only way that last night’s speed dating was “better” was the fact that I actually got to go speed dating this time.

In every other way, this attempt #2 was much worse.

*************

I was excited about speed dating at first.  If anything, it was going to be a change of pace.  Literally.

When I stepped off the metro, I felt great.  I’d just had a nice steam and sauna at the gym, so I felt relaxed and confident.  And most importantly, I had lip gloss on.  So I felt like a wanton dating goddess.  (Lip gloss doesn’t have this effect on everyone, but that’s what it does to me, so don’t you judge me.)

After a greeter seated me, I scoped out the man scene.  None of them set my loins astir until the last two guys arrived.  I zeroed in on the broad-shouldered one  (I’m a shoulders/arms kind of gal).

The greeter told him to take one of the last two empty seats.  One was in front of me, and the other one was across from the most busted chick in the room.  (I’m not saying this to be mean.  I’m just stating a fact, based on hair, skin, makeup, body, fashion sense, and overall upkeep.  So don’t get your knickers in a twist.)

Mr. Shoulders locked eyes with me, and when I smiled…

… he made a beeline for the seat across from Ms. Busted.

I felt mildly disappointed and highly insulted.  I quickly checked myself in a mirror.  Nope, no warts, no scales, no horns…  Yup, lip gloss was still fabulous.  What the hell, man?

I suppose that it didn’t matter where he sat, since he would end up in front of me at the end of the speed dating round.  But still.  My ego hurt.

And so the speed dating began…

Date #1 – Matthieu

Matthieu was kind of cute.  I just hadn’t noticed at first because he came in with Mr. Shoulders.  Matthieu seemed nice enough (I felt no desire to run away, rip his face off, or vomit.)  His only problem was that he suffered from what I’ve talked about in previous posts: munchkinosis.

He was small enough to fit in the pocket of a petite, 5’3″ Asian woman.

But it was all downhill from there.  If it’s any indication, Matthieu was the ONLY guy that I put down as a “yes” in the end — if only to avoid coming away from this whole misadventure with no date at all.

Date #2 – Chan

Chan wasn’t hideous, but his French was incomprehensible.  I just sat there looking at him blankly as he struggled to form simple sentences.  It turned out that he was Indian, so we continued our date in English.

This didn’t make things much better.  Now that I could finally understand him, he was so boring that I preferred it when he was speaking gibberish.  Chan was proof that ten minutes is FAR too long for a speed date.

This also begged the question, why the hell would you go speed dating in Paris if you don’t speak a damn word of French?!

Date #3 – Charly

Charly just sat there in silence after introducing himself and kept scanning the room — as if he were on the lookout for something/someone better.

Douche.

Date #4 – Gauthier

Gauthier was a troll.  When he sat down, I had to suppress a shudder.

And he was obviously ill at ease and suffering from a severe case of verbal diarrhea.  Even worse, with his word speed of about 592 words per minute, I didn’t understand a damn thing that he said.

His speech impediment didn’t help either.

Date #5 – Gwenaen

I think we wasted a full three minutes or so as he tried to tell me how to spell and pronounce his name.  Unfortunately, that was the highlight of this date.

So.

Dull.

And he was wearing a t-shirt with suspenders painted on them.

Baffling.

Date #6 – Christophe

Another look-around douche.

And dumb as soup.

Date #7 – Jugo

Jugo was a Yugoslav Steve Urkel with bad teeth and even worse fashion sense.  When he first said his name, I thought that his name was Gustave.  Oops.

It could have been a great bonding/funny moment if this guy weren’t such a spastic fool.  Everything he said was punctuated with such over-exuberant body movements that he almost fell out of his chair a few times.  He, too, suffered from verbal diarrhea, and he thought that everything he said was riotously funny.  It was as if he was on a date with himself, the way he laughed at his un-funny jokes.

If you could play back my thought process during this date, you’d hear, “Shut up.  Shut up.  SHUT UP.  Shut UP.  ShutupgoddammitshutupwhyareyoustilltalkingshutUP.”

Date #8 – Sylvain

He was Pee Wee Herman.  He had those same, creepily rouged/rosy cheeks.

Pee Wee Herman terrified me as a child.

Enough said.

Date #9 – Mr. Shoulders

Speed date #9 was SUPPOSED to be with Mr. Shoulders, the one guy that I was excited to speed date.  But he left early before the round ended.

Of course he did.

The universe hates me.

*************

Bottom line: I paid 15 euros to drink one glass of wine and watch grown “men” drink cocktails with glowsticks and/or umbrellas.

What a waste of lip gloss.

This wanton dating goddess will save her lip gloss for more worthwhile endeavors.

Next, please.

PLEASE.

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Mr. Prep-tard

Do you all remember when Smirnoff put out that awesome music video to advertise their raw teas?  If you haven’t, it contains vital information to appreciate this post, so click here or on the screen shot below.

And we keeps it real, the old-money way...

I would like to share my recent encounter with that stereotypical prep-tard that we all love to hate…

The quintessential prep-tard.

Earlier this week, I attended an alumni happy hour event.  Even though many of you are picturing a lame gathering of socially inept Ivy-leaguers sporting popped collars, v-neck cashmere jumpers and snotty attitudes, I generally meet some great people at these functions.  In fact, I was telling someone the other day how I was so surprised to have gone so long without meeting a bona fide douchetard at one of these things.

I spoke too soon.

On Thursday night, I found myself attempting to dialogue with exactly such a douche.

Crimson polo shirt, popped collar, soppy side-part.  Basically, this guy here.

When I first saw him, I really did want to give him the benefit of the doubt.  I’m trying to be less judgmental, dammit.

But then he started speaking.

Mr. Prep-tard – “So, were you at Harvard?”

Man-shopper – “Yup.”

Mr. Prep-tard – “So which school were you at?  The Business School?”

Man-shopper – “No, undergraduate.”

Mr. Prep-tard – “Well, we can’t all be perfect.”

Man-shopper’s brain – “Douche.”

Man-shopper’s mouth – “Ha. Ha.”

Mr. Prep-tard – “So what do you do in Paris?”

Man-shopper’s brain – “OK, maybe he just had a brain fart.  Maybe he’s perfectly nice after all.”

Man-shopper’s mouth – “I work for a foundation for the social sciences.”

Mr. Prep-tard – “Wow, that’s a whole load of bullshit.”

Man-shopper’s brain – “I guess it wasn’t a brain fart…”

Man-shopper’s mouth – “Ha. Ha.”

Mr. Prep-tard – “So tell me, what are your accomplishments?”

Man-shopper’s brain – “What.  The.  Fuck.”

Man-shopper’s mouth – “Uhhhh…  So shall I start reciting my CV for you?”

Mr. Prep-tard – “I’m serious.”

Man-shopper’s brain – “I’m too sober for this shit.”

Man-shopper’s mouth – “Well, the highlight of my life… I was Johnson & Johnson Baby of the Year back in the day.  It was all downhill from there.”

We sail yachts, and we ride on horses...

Mr. Prep-tard – “…”

But here’s the kicker… Prep-tard wasn’t from Connecticut.

Prep-tard was FRENCH.

He was a full-fledged, fully-accented prepster-wannabe POSER.

Or poseur, if you will.

Thank god Mr. Prep-tard wasn’t trying to hit on me or anything.  But if my encounter with him was any indication of his courtship skills, I truly hope that his future lady-targets know enough to say it with me…

…Next!

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Mr. Asian Fetish

In case you haven’t noticed, I am of the Asian persuasion.  And ever since my date with Mr. Love-You-Long-Time, I have received requests to blog about the Asian fetish…

So here’s the thing, folks.  I don’t have anything against the Asian fetish, per se.  I’m even reluctant to call it a “fetish.”  Everyone has a “type” that they prefer, and who am I to judge if a fellow likes the soy sauce?

Frankly, with the dawn of plastic surgery and advanced beauty products, it’s a cutthroat dating market out there.  I will take any advantage that I can get!

That being said, it is still inappropriate to blatantly advertise your ethnicity preferences on a date.  Nobody likes to be labeled like that.

For instance, one commenter pointed out that ordering a drink called “Love You Long Time” while on a date with an Asian girl “is just not done.”  Hell, taking her to a place that has it on the menu in the first place, that really “is just not done!”

Some idiot's dating site profile picture

Since that unfortunate incident, even more of my hapless dates followed his lead and crossed that just-not-done line.

Thanks to them, I have an ongoing list of what NOT to say when you are on a date with an Asianista like myself:

“Hey there, pretty Asian girl.”

  • Word to the wise, this is never a good way to start.

“Wow.  You are super tall for a Vietnamese girl.  Are Vietnamese girls taller than Cambodian girls?  My ex-girlfriend is Cambodian.”

  • He started out badly enough, but then he referenced the ex, as well?  Dumbass.

“I bet you know where all the Asian restaurants are in Paris.”

  • Yeah.  Obviously.  Because I’m Asian, I know ALL of them.  And Uncle Ho was actually my uncle.  So was Mao.

“Sure, that event sounds interesting.  Is it an Asian thing?  I’ll only go if it’s an Asian thing.”

  • I was just… speechless.

“Do you ever go to Asian Night at Mix Club?  I go all the time.”

  • This is NOT the right way to say that you love to get down with the slanty-eyed folk.

“I love to read manga.  You look like an Animé character.”

  • Good. GOD.

“Hey, I see two Asian girls sitting at that table over there.  Do you know them?  Are they your friends?”

  • Again.  I had no words.

“I loved Australia!  There are a lot of Asians there.”

  • Really?  Do I need to explain this one?

“Oh you’re Vietnamese?  We’re going to get along great!  I have heaps of female Korean friends.”

  • The only word I have for this is: STUPID.  This line was so stupid that it makes me stupid when I think about it.

You know… this goes beyond the whole issue of ethnicity.  For example, if you replaced every “Asian” with any other modifier like — gosh, I don’t know — “small-waisted,” these comments would still be inappropriate.

The worst of it is that these lines did not just come from one man-product.

In other words, such poor unfortunate souls have strength in numbers.

Sigh… am getting tired of saying this, but… NEXT!

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Messrs. Tweedledum, Tweedledee, and Tweedledimwit

This past weekend, I was lucky enough to attend a party which was — for lack of a better word — a meat-market.  Except at events like pro-wrestling nights at the pub, it is fairly rare for a woman to find herself in a social situation where men outnumber women ten to one.

Not even Comic-Con has those odds.

And unlike sporting events at the pub (those rare times that the men are far too involved with the flat-screen to take notice of any nearby boobage), this party was supposed to be a normal social event where the opposite sexes are expected to mingle and parlay.

Naturally, I thought that I had hit the jackpot.

I thought that my girlfriends and I could just waltz in, sit down, and hold court as these young man-things paid us tribute.  After all, with the free-flowing alcohol, the healthy amount of weed floating around, the absence of an Xbox, and no rugby match on telly, what else could possibly happen?

As it turns out, I could not have been farther from the truth.

I’m there for barely five minutes before Mr. Tweedledum.  He told me to hold absolutely still for about five minutes so that he could inspect and photograph my ass.  My ass did look pretty good, but come on, the whole incident still registered a 7.9 on the strange-o-meter.

On the other hand, Mr. Tweedledee thought that he was soooo smooth.  Little did he know that I have had plenty of practice deciphering the kind of cliché male double-speak that guys think is suave at four in the morning.

  • “When I saw you from across the room, I immediately knew that you are a charismatic person.” (I saw you standing there and noticed that you are hot.)
  • “With your charisma, I thought that we would get along.” (I’m thinking that you might want to have sex with me.)
  • “I like your bling.”  (I like how that necklace shows off your boobs.)
  • “The collar of your top is so interesting.”  (I like how that collar shows off your boobs.)
  • “I’ve never seen a blouse made of that material before.”  (Will you let me touch your boobs?)

But Mr. Tweedledimwit was an unmitigated disaster.  He used the following 12-step courtship process:

  1. Lock eyes with girl from across the room.
  2. Freak out when she smiles at you.
  3. Hover behind girl and look off into the distance until the awkwardness takes over, and someone is forced to include you in conversation.
  4. Refuse to look at target girl and address all girls in conversation except her.
  5. When target girl engages you in conversation, sex her up by discussing the most recent article you read about Doogie Howser.
  6. Walk away while she tries to come up a response.
  7. Drink until you’re stupid.
  8. Come back a couple hours later and attempt to have a normal getting-to-know-you conversation.
  9. Say that her job sounds intimidating.
  10. Walk away.
  11. “Run into” her at the food table and take her brownie from her plate.
  12. Leave party.

Clearly, the man who wrote this 12-step program was an idiot.

So at five in the morning, my girls and I finally decided to throw in the towel.  I almost pity the two women that stayed behind with that sorry lot.

We had left them with a couple dozen of the most hapless fools in Paris.

Next, next and NEXT!

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Mr. Neener-neener

In the words of Sheldon Cooper: “There’s an economic concept known as a positional good in which an object is only valued by the possessor because it’s not possessed by others. The term was coined in 1976 by economist Fred Hirsch to replace the more colloquial, but less precise, ‘neener-neener.’”

I only valued Mr. Neener-neener because I had a date with him when my nemesis didn’t.  He wasn’t pants-droppingly hot, and his personality wasn’t much to write home about either, but I didn’t care because he was my “positional good” — my “neener-neener” boy toy.

However, I recently learned that this concept of positional good really backfires when applied to man-goods.

Just because my nemesis is chatting up a guy on my dating website, that does NOT mean that it is a good idea to add him to my shopping cart out of spite or competitive spirit.  My nemesis is my nemesis precisely because we have vastly diverging points of view about everything, including preferences about our favorite flavors of man-candy.

Of course, I didn’t think about all that before I went on a date with the guy.  That’s because I am an eejit.

Not only did I go on a date with the guy, but I was also stupid enough to mention that I knew about his acquaintance with my nemesis.

I admit that I did it just to gauge his reaction.  I wanted to make him uncomfortable and see how he reacted to awkward revelations and situations.  I couldn’t help myself, I love the power trip.

But I didn’t expect Mr. Neener-neener to turn the tables on me by interrogating me about her.  Her likes, her dislikes, her hobbies…  I’m not sure when he decided to switch targets, but at some point in his male stream of logic, he worked it out that his current date would be willing to show him the way into someone else’s pants. Now how’s the eejit, eh?

As much as I would have liked to lord Mr. Neener-neener over my nemesis, it was not worth the humiliation of being exploited to get to someone much less awesome than me (yeah, I know, I’m vain).

So, folks, take it from someone who learned the hard way.  The concept of “Neener-neener” should never determine who you date.  Sure, go ahead and get that last croissant just so the bitch in line behind you can’t have it.  But seriously, leave that bitch to her own devices when it comes to the guy who works behind the counter.  Unless he is Clive Owen’s doppelganger, he isn’t worth it.

NEXT!

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