Tag Archives: idiot

Mr. Sandwich Artist

Like my friend, Ryan, my favorite food genre is the sandwich.  To me, a deli is a sacred place.  It is a place where a multitude of glorious ingredients come together to form a wondrous harmonious concoction that quickly finds its way into my tummy… and my heart.  When I say, “I love that sandwich so much, I’d marry it,” I actually mean it.  I truly do.

But one day, my faith in the all-healing powers of sandwichery was shaken.

Badly.

I popped into a nearby deli to find some lunch in the form of a pastrami sandwich, and I noticed that the sandwich artist on duty kept shooting me strange looks.  I didn’t think much of it at first, but eventually he broke the silence by asking me a very pointed question.

Sandwich Artist : “How old are you?”

I was so taken aback by his directness that I answered truthfully without thinking.

Sandwich Artist : “Are you married?  Any kids?”

I just shook my head at him; quite frankly, I was in a daze.  I just wasn’t expecting this kind of interrogation, and he caught me completely off guard.

His eyes widened, and he gasped.  Loud enough to be rude, I think.

Sandwich Artist : “OH MY GOODNESS, YOU ARE RUNNING OUT OF TIME.”

Man-shopper : “Erm.  What?”

Sandwich Artist : “YOU DON’T HAVE MUCH TIME LEFT!  YOU HAVE TO HURRY!”

There were no mirrors at the time to confirm this, but I suspect that the look on my face was some mixture of shock, horror, and complete confusion.  I remember thinking to myself, “What is happening here?  WHAT IS HAPPENING?”

The rest of our (thankfully) brief conversation went something like this:

Man-shopper : “Hurry?  Why?  I’m still so young!”

Sandwich Artist : “No, you’re not.  You’re running out of time.  If you don’t hurry up, you will die alone.”

Man-shopper : “Whoa, hang on.  That’s a bit dramatic.”

Sandwich Artist : “Not really.  Why don’t you want to be married?”

Man-shopper : “Who said I don’t want to be married?  What if I’m just not ready to settle down yet?”

Sandwich Artist : “At your age, if you’re not married, you don’t want to be married, right?”

Man-shopper : “This conversation is over.  Could I pay for my sandwich now please?”

I did not leave him a tip.

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Ms. Fountain of Youth

There are many reasons why pulling at the gym is a risky and ill-advised endeavor.  Included among these reasons is the fact that it’s an environment in which everyone is presumably wearing athletic clothing, the construction standards for which are fairly uniform.  Without the normal cues provided by personal style (e.g. dressing up vs. dressing like a skanky ho) and social context (e.g. being at a wine bar on a Thursday evening vs. being at the Dairy Queen on a Thursday evening), it’s very difficult to get an accurate read on a young to youngish person’s age.

I had never considered this to be a major problem until I started training regularly at a climbing gym just outside of DC.

But before I continue, let me first make one thing very clear.

I don’t go to the gym or undertake athletic activities for the sole purpose of meeting men.  In fact, I would prefer that all romantical expectations to be removed from the equation entirely, especially whilst doing relatively serious things like attempting to cling to a deep overhang with only a rope, a belayer, and a dusting of chalk preventing me from decking 40 feet and breaking my back.

And I would like to think that my fellow climbers have similar mindsets.

However, I didn’t expect that so many youths under the age of 18 frequent my climbing gym.

I’d also forgotten that teenagers are nothing more than heaving bags of hormones.

And it never occurred to me that, when I’m dressed in lycra and leg warmers and when I’ve pulled my hair back into a ponytail, I could possibly look anywhere in between the ages of 15 and 35.

So, one day, much to my dismay, a (very) young-looking man who approached me with an absurdly exaggerated swagger, leered non-menacingly (as only a youth can do) down at me, and opened with:

“Soooooooo….. What grade are you in?”

I was appalled.

I was mortified.

I was speechless.

As I sat there and furiously blinked up at him, another (also quite) young-looking man barged in, ostensibly to my rescue.

“Listen, man, you’re too young for her.  Back off.”

As the young boy (of sixteen-ish? maybe??) slunk away in defeat, I felt relief wash over me about the fact that I would no longer have to respond to the inevitable follow-up question about which local high school (or even middle school??) I attended.

This respite was short-lived, since my knight in shining armor then turned to me in order to say:

“Sooooooo…. Do you go to college around here too?  I’m a sophomore.  What about you?  When do you graduate?”

At this point, I just got up and beat a hasty retreat to the ladies locker room.

I really need to lay off the anti-wrinkle cream.

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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. Gym Casanova

While I was tidying the other day, I found my old workout notebook, in which I also scrawled some of the more memorable lines that men have fed me at the gym.  My long-time readers may remember that I spend big chunks of my life at the gym.  And since I signed up over a year ago, I’ve had plenty of time to observe the kind of barbarism that is somehow accepted as civilized human behavior at a parisian gym.

I picked out some of my “favorites” and added a few recent gems in order to present to you, dear readers, the Gym Casanova Hall of Infamy:

In the lobby:

  • “Hey, girl, you don’t need to work out.  Don’t go upstairs to work out.  Stay here in the lobby with me and I’ll give you a workout.”
  • “Don’t see many of ‘your people’ in here.”

In the free weights room :

  • “Hey, little girl, are you lost?”
  • “Aren’t you afraid of turning into a man?”
  • “You must be in here to find a man, no?”

In the weight machines area :

  • “Will you marry me?  Oh, not YOU.  I don’t like asians.  I was talking to the girl behind you.”
  • “Are you lesbian?”

In the stretching area:

  • “Women shouldn’t do push-ups.”
  • “Do you give thai massages?  You’re thai, right?”

In the cardio area:

  • “You know, a lady is not supposed to sweat like that.”
  • “Finished already?  <as he looks me up and down>  Don’t you think that you need to burn a few more calories?”

From the mouth of a mean trainer:

  • “You’ve gotten fat over the holidays.  Looks like I have my work cut out for me.”

  • “You look terrible today.”  (For the record, I thought that I looked pretty good, dammit.)
  • <pinches the area of my back right above my butt>  “Got to trim this down!”  (Ever since then, I’ve been terrified about back fat.)

I love working out.

But goddamn it, I hate going to the gym in Paris.

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Mr. Comment King

My last post was about some assclownery in that strange section of the blog where readers leave comments.  But this time, I’d like to honor a commenter who disagreed with an asstard commenter who makes Mr. Comment Courtship seem like a silver-tongued comment god.

It all started with my post about the asian fetish, which led to the following unbearably long rant (reproduced in its original form, including atrocious spelling and grammar, questionable punctuation and lamentable LOLing):

OK, The INCREDIBLE hypocrisy from you

is abslutely sutnning:

1. Non-Asian girls can have a thing for Asian guys — that’s just “cute.” But when a white guy has a thing for an asian girl, it’s some sort of weird “fetish??” LOL. You are either really stupid, or just messed up because wow — that’s creepy that you feel you have the power to dehumanize all white men in the world when they might have interest in asia, but, when a non-asian girl has a thing for asian guys… AWWWWW, that’s just so CUTE!!! LOL. That’s fucked up.

2. So…..You can treat men like we are a fucking product on a shelf and it’s OK? LOL, you creep. Not so. I am not a product that you dehumanize and make into your prey. Do you not think that I will fe

el just as creeped out by the name of your blog (you are so creepy! LOL) when you treat me like a product? Wow you’re dense!!! Since when do I want to be your fucking creepy Occidental product that you go out “shopping” for you creepy hypocrite?! LOL.. but here’s the best part: You’re so fucking stupid, you even named your blog “manshopping?”

OH. But….wait for it. Here is the absolute greatest: and then you are lecturing me….. _ME_ …… about having simple interest in Asian women?

LMAO. Are you really that dense?

I think I need to throw up…

3. And here’s the most disgusting thing abou

t Asian women like you who run around and lecture white men (or any one non-asian) about dating asian women. YOU ARE NOT EVEN VERY ATTRACTIVE!! LOL. What you need to do is this: before you go to bed tonight go take a couple I-am-not-AT-ALL-as-hot-as-I-think-I-am pills, get a good night’s sleep, wake up tomorrow, and maybe you will be able to move beyond this absolutely offensive and creepy objectification of white men. I get so tired of non-attractive asian women demanding that I NOT have a fetish for you. Here’s a little tip — I am not attracted to unattractive women.

4. Which leads me to my next point: YOU HAVE A WHITE FETISH. It’s so amazingly clear. But what is that? OHHHHHH. It’s OK for you to have have a fucked up weird creepy feti

sh for ME that you actually (I still can’t believe how fucked up this is) have a blog named “Man-shopping” … and then-LOL- you turn around and lecture — no, you patronize and condescend me, ASSUMING that you a

re attractive at all to me — with your tirade about all these non-asian guys that probably just have interest in asian things.

5. In the end, we ALL know the truth. The ones with the biggest asian fetish are ASIANS!! YOU are all in love with yourselves, cuz guess what miss average-looking. I AINT GOT ANY FETISH FOR YOU; I AM NOT OBSESSED WITH YOU; AND I NEVER WILL BE. What is so fucking hilarious, is that you asians are so obsessed with yourselves, that you inscribe that fetish on to ME.

UM…. NO. Sorry, you wierd, creepy asian wo

man.

I AM NOT OBSESSED WITH, NOR DO I HAVE ANY FETISH FOR YOU. And yes — I have lived in Asia, and dated lots of great asian women. Guess what: I would NEVER be attracted to you, nor would I ever date you.

Hey, so that’s great huh? You don’t have to worry about me having a fetish for you, huh you weirdo?

And to close, um, sorry, no. I was not recently dumped by an asian woman. I am a very successful advertising exec and (Im sure this will come as a surprise too) I do not date only asian women. I date women who I am attracted to, and sometimes they are asian.

You asians do us all a favor and work on dismantling that creepy self-fetish you have that you then inscribe on the rest of the world.

The only fetish out there for asians is, unfortunately, the fetish you have for yourselves.

And sorry, but that is incredibly creepy.

This guy, who referred to himself as “Reality-Check” (this hyphen placement makes my eyes bleed), is clearly among today’s intellectual elite.

Ha.

Ha.

I didn’t address his accusations head-on, as I don’t often humor borderline illiterate people.  (I say illiterate not only because his writing is painfully inarticulate, but also because he doesn’t seem to possess even the most rudimentary reading comprehension skills; his response made it clear that he neither read and nor understood any of my original blog post.)

But then RManni01 chimed in:

I am in the ad biz also and suggest that the “man shopping” handle is meant to be clever and provocative. It is not a put down or positioning dudes like products. It is F-U-N. Remember that?

Yay!  He gets it!

Does he stop there?  No.

And, face it, a lot of guys have a thing for Asian women. And why not? Having dated lovely ladies of all race, creeds, and colors, I have found wonderful characteristics in most of these women (otherwise why bother?) regardless of where they are from, etc.. And, having paid attention (important, guys), it seems that the vast majority of the Asian women I know–at least in the circles I run in–are elegant, intelligent, have beautiful skin, are great family people, faithful, trustworthy, strong-minded, knowledgable about what to eat and what not to eat, great cooks, fun-loving, clean, feminine, in great shape, crazy and unpredictable in a wonderful way, and sexy as hell. Yeah, I guess there is something wrong with me.

Granted, under normal circumstances, I’d be wary of generalizations about my fellow yellows, but there is a marked difference in this particular case.

He’s not saying that these women possess these qualities due to their Asian-ness, per se, but he is saying that the Asian women of his acquaintance just happen to possess these qualities.  It is a nuance that changes the whole game, guys, so take note.

And even if RManni01 didn’t actually mean to make this distinction, I will excuse his presumption anyway.

Why?

Because I am all those things that he listed.

I ROCK.

And you are darn tootin’ right, I am sexy as hell.

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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. Normal

Bueller?…  Bueller?… Bueller?

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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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