Mr. Fuckwit

Part I – meeting the enemy

I met Mr. Fuckwit at a friend of a friend’s party.  He didn’t make much of an impression on me at the time.  I was busy mingling and having a good time — standard procedure for parties.

However, late that night, as my partner-in-crime, Lady C, and I were walking home, we had the following conversation:

  • Lady C: So what did you think of Mr. Fuckwit?
  • Me: Meh.
  • Lady C: You didn’t think that he was cute?
  • Me: Yeah, he’s cute.
  • Lady C: WELL?!
  • Me: Well, what?
  • Lady C: WELL, he was following you around all night like a puppy!
  • Me: Oh, I just thought that I kept running into him randomly.  It was a small party.
  • Lady C: You are so dense.  He was into you!
  • Me: His conversation wasn’t very stimulating.
  • Lady C: <if exasperated looks could talk, it would say something like “What the hell is wrong with you?!  He’s CUTE, dammit!”>

Clearly, I wasn’t exactly smitten with Mr. Fuckwit at our first meeting.  But in the spirit of open-mindedness, I promised Lady C that I’d give him another chance.

I need to stop making promises.

Part II – first skirmish

Lady C was very proactive on my behalf at that party; she had taken out her iPhone to facebook-friend Mr. Fuckwit on the spot.  She also invited him to our upcoming alumni happy hour before we left that night.

Mr. Fuckwit friended me on facebook straightaway.  And since I didn’t fix my privacy settings in time, he also clicked on my links to this man-shopping blog and proceeded to send me a message in which he joked that he was “for sale.”

(Mr. Fuckwit, if you’re reading this now, this will be tough for you.  But frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.  It’s not often that you get to have a written review of your courtship techniques, so sit back and consider yourself privileged.)

I didn’t expect Mr. Fuckwit to come to our happy hour, since he wouldn’t have known anybody there but Lady C and me.  And I wasn’t going to give him my undivided attention at an event that I attend in order to mingle, network and catch up with friends and acquaintances.

But he came.

And he hovered around me (it wasn’t as bad as Mr. Hovercraft though, thank god) for the rest of the night while I did my thing.

I had to give Mr. Fuckwit points for having the balls to stick it out like that.  So when he asked me out for lunch, I consented.

I shouldn’t have.

  • Me: So my number is…
  • Mr. Fuckwit: Wait.  You have a French phone right?
  • Me: Uh, yeah, dude.  After being in Paris for three and a half years, I’d kinda need to have a French phone.  <What the hell is this guy on about?>
  • Mr. Fuckwit: Are you sure that it’s a French number though?
  • Me: Um.  YES.  <Can he really think that I’m THAT stupid?>

If Mr. Fuckwit had been some guy off the street, I would have abandoned ship at this point.  But we must have had mutual friends at that party, and I couldn’t see any polite way out of giving him my number.  So he got my digits.  And a lunch date.

Winner of the first skirmish: Mr. Fuckwit.

Well-played, sir.  Well-played indeed.

Part III: Mr. Fuckwit’s long march through enemy territory

The lunch date was doomed to fail before it even started.  My army of date snipers had his troops in their sights long before they were within striking distance of the formidable fortress that protects my naked lady-bits.  By the end of the date, all Mr. Fuckwit’s advances were all for naught, as none of his troops survived to even attempt a proper siege.

Here are a few highlights:

He told me to meet him at the Sentier metro stop (which is smack-dab in the city center, by the way), but then he asked me if I’d know how to find it.

  • Does he truly believe that I’ve lived here for almost four years without ever learning how to read a metro map?  What sort of idiots does this guy date?

“Have you heard of rue Montorgueuil?”

  • That’s like asking a long-time New York City resident whether they’ve heard of Wall Street.

“Oh, you already know about <insert long list of cliché attractions in Paris>?  Damn, so where am I going to show you around?”

  • Paris is my HOME, fuckwit.  It’s been my home for YEARS.  Yes, I’m American.  And no, not all American girls are simpering, naïve, teenaged exchange students whose ultimate orgasmic fantasy is to have a frenchman (or in this case, a Tunisian) show them around the romantic sights of Paris while they giggle, sigh, hang on to his every word, and revere him for knowing SO MUCH about PARIS.

“What do you feel like eating?”

  • I HATE this conversation.  It’s a pet peeve of mine.  You ask me out, so you pick a place.  Be a man.

“Those are cool sunglasses, but they hide so much of your beauty.”

  • I had to refrain from visibly gagging.

“Oh, you don’t feel like pasta?  There’s a Chinese traiteur down this way.  HAHAHAHA.”

  • No two ways about it.  This was just stupid.

“You’ve had mashed potatoes on your upper lip for a long time now, and I was having fun thinking about how long I would wait before I told you.  HAHAHAHAHA.”

  • This is him being charming?  Jackass.

“I’m writing a novel about the economic crisis, but I’m going to make it sci-fi and sexy.”


“Vietnamese girls have a different kind of beauty than Chinese girls.”

  • He was feeding me lines like this as if he thought that he was the all-knowing expert on Asian beauty and as if he was teaching me something.  I wanted to shove my fork down his throat.  And then twist it.

(after we finished lunch) “Do you want to get a drink somewhere?  You’re paying, right?”

  • Christ.  I was GOING to offer to pay if he had let me get a word in edgewise.  Seriously, dude.  Simmer down. After that I no longer wanted to have that drink OR pay, but I was stuck with it since he was so aggressive about it.

“I think that you are exceedingly beautiful.  Oh, I can see that compliments make you uncomfortable.  HAHAHA.  Well, you really are beautiful, your hair, your eyes, your makeup….”

  • After I explicitly told him that these kinds of compliments make me uncomfortable, he thought that it’d be funny to push my buttons.  All the wrong buttons.  (For the record, I think that these CONSTANT references to a lady’s beauty are much more effective when you’re already in a relationship with her, and she’s having a PMS-induced image crisis.)

“Your cheeks look so fluffy, can I pinch them?  Pretty please?  Aw come, please?  Pleeeeeeeeease?”

  • If looks could kill, there should have been a five-mile-wide crater where he was sitting.


To sum up, I was annoyed by pretty much everything that came out of his mouth.  I was doing so much fake laughing and fake smiling throughout the afternoon that I think my facial muscles were starting to twitch.  I don’t even know why I bothered to pretend.  Reflex, I suppose.

At some point, after he remarked on the fact that I was carrying around a sport water bottle, I said, “Yeah, it’s handy.  Whenever I’m bored, I can just drink water.”  And then I took a big swig.

Mr. Fuckwit didn’t get the message.


n.b. – I chose the name “Mr. Fuckwit” deliberately.  According to the latest episode of Mythbusters (“No Pain No Gain”), profanity actually does increase one’s tolerance for pain.  I figured that this post would be painful and that you, dear readers, would need some profanity to get you through to the end.  Also, he really was a bit of a fuckwit.


Filed under Misters

45 responses to “Mr. Fuckwit

  1. My dear Ms Manshopping – how the Dickens do you find these numpties? Paris must be filled with half-wits if you end up with so many of them. Perhaps I should reconsider the holiday that I was planning to take there…

    • There must have been a city-wide memo sent out to all the daft men that said, “Helene blogs about dating in Paris. GO ASK HER OUT NOW.”

      That’s the only explanation that I can think of.

      As for your holiday, I think you should go through with it. My motives for saying that are entirely selfish; I was hoping that you could report back to me about whether Parisian women are as bad as the men that I meet. More importantly, would they love apple flapjacks?

      • I don’t think that I’ll be able to report on apple flapjacks, since I very much doubt that I’ll have the time (or cooking facilities!) to test people’s reactions to them. As to the women – I suspect that I’ll be too busy taking pictures of pretty buildings, visiting the Louvre and admiring the sewers to report much on them, but we shall have to see! Any tips?

      • Tips about sightseeing or tips about parisian women? 🙂

        If it’s the latter, I’m useless. But as for the former, I could definitely offer up my favorite haunts, great restaurants, and more obscure things about the city that I love. I’m always happy to share them, so let me know what you’re interested in, and I’ll shoot you an email about it!

      • Sightseeing! Would be intrigued to know your favourite haunts, especially the obscure ones. Shall e-mail you my e-mail and look forward to the obscurity!

  2. Hahahahahaha. Well I don’t know about painful. I’m freaking laughing my ass off! Holy crap, I can’t decide if he was just the biggest douche ever or really that much of a Fuckwit. Too bad you have mutual friends. Do you think you could consider those mutuals to dump him as a friend so that you never have to speak to him again?

    • According to facebook, I may be safe on the mutual friends front. I may un-friend him. But I’d be interested to see if he tries to defend his honor by leaving a comment here. I’m a bit twisted, I know.

  3. Frankly, my dear, I’m surprised you didn’t run away like you did with Mr. Cheshire Cat. Verbal hideousness like this is almost as bad as the smile of a creepy molester. Glad you got through it. I’m just about at my wits end with the men in my life; I suspect you’re feeling somewhat the same?

    PT Lover

    • I, too, am surprised that I stuck it out. Between Lady C pressuring me to like the guy and the possibility that we had mutual friends, I was reluctant to blatantly sprint away. It did cross my mind though.

  4. billzebub

    But why the fake laughing and smiling? I don’t get why women do that. Wouldn’t it have been a more interesting afternoon if you had engaged him honestly?

    • I’m not necessarily saying that I’m CONVINCING. In fact, I’m pretty sure that any normal person could probably tell that I wasn’t having a good time.

      But as for your question, I’m not sure why we do it either. For me, it’s almost an uncontrollable reaction. I don’t exactly make a conscious choice to pretend.

      But if my subconscious thought process could be determined, I’m guessing that it goes kind of like this (except it would occur at the speed of light): “I could be honest here and act like a bitch/asshole/horribly cold date. Or I can just pretend for a bit and maybe it’ll be over soon without any hurt feelings. No need to be mean to his face, right? Oooo I can probably blog about this later, let’s just play along for a bit. Awesome, I can be mean behind his back in a blog post. Smile, bitch!”

      I’m a terrible person.

      But you do have a point, I’ll try complete honesty the next time that I’m out with a fuckwit. THAT would be an interesting blog post too!

      • Ben

        I look forward to your honest approach next time. I think it might be a short blog though.

        The last time I tried to be completely honest on a bad date, I said something like, “Look, to be honest.. I don’t feel that we have any chemistry and I don’t want to waste your time (although my time was more important to me, it was still a true statement.. no reason to be a dick), So, let’s just say good-bye and wish each other luck.” She said OK and asked where I was going. When I told her I was going home, she said, “can I come?” Seriously.

        I think she might have been retarded.

        Clearly, some people are so blinded by your Asiatic beauty (or in my case, my non-Asiaticness) that they become fuckwits.

        My recommendation: Next time you go to a party, go as a mime.

      • When I finalize my mime routine, I’ll debut it at a party and report back.

        In the meantime, I’ll go for unfiltered, uncensored, uninhibited, blunt honesty on my next date. It could very well be a short post. Or it could be epic like the last time I didn’t sugarcoat a rejection. Hint: it ultimately required police intervention. (No more spoilers. You’ll have to wait for the upcoming blog post.)

  5. Oh, just to let you know, that memo, I saw one pinned on the Mairie noticeboard, and I’m in Brittany.

  6. If you aren’t going to go out with him again, can I have his number? He sounds like a real gem.

    Please, please, PLEASE let us know if he reads this and responds!

    • I would gladly share his number with you. However, do you have a mobile phone? Are you sure? Like, are you sure that you haven’t been mistaking a land-line phone for a mobile for three years?

      I’ll make a big announcement the instant that he responds, don’t you worry!

  7. Wow. I admire your patience and your stamina. And really, when did it become okay to say stuff like:

    “Vietnamese girls have a different kind of beauty than Chinese girls”

    Are you supposed to be flattered by that? Cause it just confused me. Thing is, he’s probably said crap like that to tons of women–in my experience men (maybe women too) tend to stick with what works for them.

    Let’s hope he read the post and the comments.

    • I just can’t believe that this crap EVER worked for ANYONE. Maybe he dated deaf, mute and really stupid girls?

      I have a feeling that he probably won’t read this post. I’ve received two emails and a text message from him since this date, basically pussyfooting around seeing me again.

      Maybe I’ll just respond with a link to this post? Too mean?

      • Maybe too mean. But definitely hilarious. And possibly deserved.

      • Link! Link! *crowd chants*

        It’s horribly mean, but how is this guy ever going to learn if he doesn’t have his ego utterly crushed at least once? Frankly, I would be flattered if so many people took the time to write mean things about me. Any attention is good attention for some. Maybe you can give him some compliments as well.. like, “your shoes seemed to fit you well” then give him the link, then “you have a nice head of hair.” I think he’ll handle it better that way.

  8. Wow, that is pretty awful! (Very entertaining post, though.) I always comfort myself that at least bad dates do make for great blog fodder.

  9. I heart your concern for us readers 😛 I think the study is right…the pain was dulled a bit by the aptly profane name 🙂

  10. Oh, gross.

    Personal experience has led me to believe that, when men you’ve just met make 2+ references to your nationality (or something like it, aka “fluffy cheeks”), they have an incurable Asian fetish. And I don’t find this offensive, just boring.

    • I agree. Not offensive. However, “fluffy cheeks” was beyond annoying. At my age, any cheek-pinching is enough to merit a kick in the nuts.

  11. He really asked if he could pinch your cheeks?? God, I was just imagining a French accent when he said that, and wanted to hurt him. FUCKWIT! Stay in Frances!

    • I, too, wanted to hurt him. Badly. But not badly enough to kill him. That way, he’d be alive for you and all my friends to hurt him badly as well.

      I have quite violent fantasies about people I loathe.

  12. Alex

    Seriously, Manshopper, while your blog writing skills are only getting better in quality, I’m afraid that it is because of the ever-decreasing quality of the men! I’m crossing my fingers for you in the month before you come home since I’m pretty sure Man Jose isn’t going to be your answer. But that just means we can marathon trashy TV here!

    Tell me what you want to watch and I’ll load it up on the DVR now. Again: 65-inch HDTV. And cherry season Chez Orquiza.

  13. I loved this blog due to the good writing and this: your military analogy and quagmire of a date.

    Your date is like the Vietnam Conflict (not a war due to no Congressional declaration).

    The guy clearly has his penis between his legs if it is even that big or all shriveled up after reading this blog.

    My advice is pull out (delete him from facebook or is it called remove as a friend?).

    I jacked my privacy settings. Recently, I added someone so I took my blog off it. Didn’t want them reading it.

    Anyways, awesome blog once again.

  14. Um. Oh. My. God.

    “Your cheeks are so fluffy” almost killed me. Also, your blog has totally killed any illusions about the supposed suaveness of French men.

    Good grief.

    • My blog’s mission has taken on a new dimension. I now want to shatter the illusions that we silly anglophone girls have about Parisian romance. I want to demonstrate that Parisian men are about as suave as fish sticks.

      Let the revolution begin.

  15. Pingback: Mr. Not Even Close « Man-shopping in Paris

  16. Ask him about the fluff on HIS cheeks ;D

    • HAHA! Where are you when I need a witty comeback, Aidan?! I should take you along as my “associate,” and you can chime in with snarky rejoinders when my brain fails me.

  17. Shocking how some people can have so little self-awareness.

  18. Next time tell him he can pinch your cheeks if you can punch him in the face. but make sure when you mime going for the face that you make awesomely cliched ninja noises.
    that will really help out your asian stereotype

    • What I didn’t mention in this date write-up is that he actually did mime a punch to MY face. Oh yes. During our lunch date. I’d forgotten about that until now. I can’t remember the context, but wow, did he think that punching me in the face would make me want to have sex with him??

      • maybe he just figured he’d have to knock you out first as you weren’t giving him the go he was so actively seeking.

      • Right, that’s not the least bit creepy.

        I suppose that there are downsides to having almost no pre-date screening process. Wow, when did I get so bored?

  19. I love this! Gave me flashbacks to my many fuckwits. Adore the profanity factoid @ the end.

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