For Those a Y'all About to Get Romantic

Clock this, dawg--you done got showed-up fo-show!

And I bet when you woke up this morning curled up under your 2000-thread-count Hermês duvet with a soiled Playboy/girl stuck to your paw you thought you had this little boy right where you wanted him, totally out of contention for Romantic Person of the Year.

But the votes are in and you lost. 7,000,000,000 to 0.

¡Lo siento, cabron!

_

My Second-Favorite Valentine's Day

As I drowned myself in rum and coconut milk in my favorite South Pacific watering hole the afternoon before last, waiting for something to happen, occasionally stealing glances at an emaciated Pauly Shore as he danced laconically in an unlit, dung-encrusted cage in the corner, next to the photo booth, my long-lost friend Pierre--now a drug runner for a band of Filipino pirates and a snazzy dresser for sure, with a god-given gift for accessorizing--sidled up alongside me at the bar, out of nowhere, and we got to talking.

At one point during our grand revelry, Pierre reminded me of an interesting incident from our past that had somehow wholly escaped my brain. He was a bit foggy on the details, as was I, but I had to have a go at it anyway, so please excuse any potential inaccuracies, people of Earth.

Here goes, from the beginning:

February 14, 2002. Chicago.

I was living in the then-sketchy Uptown neighborhood with a good friend from college, Pierre. We lived steps from Montrose Harbor, in a lake-view apartment. Pierre had his car broken into at least four times, once on consecutive nights. I worked as a freelance production assistant in the local film industry. Pierre worked as an exotic dancer. We were young, handsome, and fearless. We had a great time.

We were both single and without plans for Valentine's Day (oh, no!), so another friend of mine from college--Alice--invited us over to her apartment in nearby Wrigleyville for a party.

Now, Alice is very attractive and a very good friend of mine, but she is definitely on the straighter side of the coin--she grew up in Wheaton, went to church every Sunday during college, etc. I don't recall her having a drink until her junior or senior year, despite all her friends being your typical college bingers, and I don't think I ever saw her drunk.

Not that there's anything wrong with that, but it definitely has an impact on whether or not I want to go to a party, seeing as I'm the sort of guy who likes to tear it up and I prefer the company of others who feel the same way.

This being the case, Pierre and I were not exactly in a hurry to get to Alice's apartment, didn't want to be the first ones to get there and get stuck talking to the kind of people who show up exactly when a party starts, find ourselves under a microscope, etc.

You ken the score.

Instead, we hit up a cool little diner near her place around 8pm--the official start time of the party--and devoured gigantic cheeseburgers, killed some time, discussed strategy, etc.

After dinner, we smoked some weed in the car outside her place and, now that we had our heads on crooked, prepared to casually slip into the dance party, scare up a drink, and see what was what.

When Alice let us in, I immediately realized she was wasted. Her face was beet-red and her movements were sudden and excessively forceful. She was thrilled to see us and gave me a big hug.

But something was wrong--I couldn't hear any music and all the lights were on.

What the...I noticed three girls sitting around the dining room table drinking wine and glaring at Pierre and I. There were six unsullied place settings.

Gulp.

It turns out it was a dinner party and everybody had been waiting for us for over an hour, hadn't started eating yet. Even though Alice didn't seem to mind, the other guests were supremely irritated. I searched my mind and could find no recollection of dinner being involved in this affair, but that hardly mattered now.

Adding insult to injury, the only other guests were Claire the Bear, Claire the Scare, a kinda-boring-but-kinda-sexy girl named Maria, and us. I had struck out with Maria once already and Claire the Scare and I, to put it nicely, had a rocky opinion of each other. To make matters worse, Pierre had a 'thing' with Claire the Bear not too long ago--a thing which didn't end so well.

How's that for a hit ratio? This was going to be ugly.

Alice announced to the room that she was drunk, that she had been chugging wine as she cooked, and that she hoped the food wasn't too burnt, too cold, etc. The other girls all shared intense looks as Alice brought the food out from the kitchen and slammed the dishes onto the table, one by one.

She offered Pierre some food--gentlemen first, I guess--and it became immediately apparent that he had disengaged his brain at some point:

"No thanks--I'm not hungry. We just ate a huge dinner...we didn't realize it was a dinner party..."

Every single girl at the table--not big fans of us to begin with--glared at us as if Pierre had just called them the latest in a long line of fat, diseased whores with no fashion sense and I smiled sheepishly, wishing Pierre had kept his fucking mouth shut and just picked at his dinner like a five year-old boy confronting a meatloaf, as I had planned.

As if I thought it would somehow help our situation, I took a generous helping of food and began effortfully piling it on top of my burger and fries, feeling my belly distend like the fat guy in The Meaning of Life (watch the whole thing), hoping I wouldn't explode in a hurricane of vomit.

Alice sat down with a crash, declared that she wasn't even hungry, downed some more wine, and, thankfully--since this was the toughest audience I'd ever encountered--started talking.

It wasn't quite a toast, but more of a 'casual monologue.' The gist of it was that it was Valentine's Day and she was, very suddenly, alone. She revealed that the older, married(?) man she had been secretly seeing at work recently broke things off, on account of his being really fucked-up about his best friend's recent death.

His best friend was Daniel Pearl, the Wall Street Journal journalist who was beheaded in Pakistan a mere 13 days before this dinner.

The room was as silent as a cemetery, yet throbbing with discomfort. Pierre and I swallowed this fascinating fact with great difficulty, completely unsure how to respond, suddenly hyperaware of every molecule in our body.

How does one react to such an admission?

Apparently by gulping down wine, as that is what everybody at the table did--even the girls, who no doubt already knew the score since they were all thick as thieves.

I tried to change the subject:

"Hey, whatever happened to that guy you were dating before, the long-distance guy who lived in Houston?"

"Well, it's funny you mention that. It turned out he was dating somebody else the whole time. He was dating her before I even met him."

Gulp.

"The worst part is, I even met her once, when I was visiting him for a football game in Houston. I had no idea. Neither did she. But she found out about it and called me up."

Double gulp.

"I mean...and to think I wanted to marry him..."

The heart breaks for this poor girl. Again, how does one react to such news?

Pierre and I couldn't hazard a guess, and left not long after this admission, a bit sad, a bit rattled, lucky to be alive.

I still can't decide whether it was a good or bad thing that we were stoned during the entire debacle, but I certainly would not like to go back in time and repeat the evening with a clear mind, so I guess it's irrelevant.

Anyway, how's that for an awkward evening?

_

The Ten Stages of Romance

So, lately, I've been having all kinds of ladyfolk asking me for all kinds of stuff and I'm like:

"Yo! I gotta tell it to you straight, babygirl--there's certain things you gotta do to climb another rung on the ladder, know what I mean?"

I'm sure I ain't alone in this predicament, so this missive goes out to all those players out there (lemme hear ya, Naperville!!!) trying to keep it real--a pocket-sized, smart-brained guide to gift-giving between men and the ladyfolk that poison their hopes, dreams, and lives.

Recognize:


1. Drink
So, you're out at a bar and you see a girl with an ass you just want to take a bite out of like a crisp Granny Smith on a hot summer day. You blow her kisses, you maintain eye contact as you rub your dick in a sexy way and push people over to get up in her face, you grind on that ass, impress her with the pointiness of the erection drowning in your wide-gauge corduroy jeans, she keeps pushing your hands away from her breasts...now what, right?
This what--buy the lady a drink.

Hint: Ladies usually like drinks with peach in them, or vodka drinks with granites, or drinks that end in 'wine.' If she asks for something else, she might have a penis, or at least a remnant of one. Walk away--it ain't worth the risk. Trust me.


2. French Fries
So it's five minutes later and her drink is empty and the thirsty little kitten is standing there wanting more, right? Perfect--it's always a good idea to leave 'em wanting more. This fox is in the cage, na'mean? Before she can say anything, drop this gem on that little AppleBrownBetty: "Fries?" Nothing says foreplay like deep-fried potatoes eaten in tandem under fluorescent lighting.

Hint: If the tiger's got teeth, make sure to order the large--it never hurts to impress with largesse.


3. Breakfast
After you bang her every way from Sunday, and if she still looks fine(-ish), make sure to offer the lady breakfast in bed--there isn't a girl alive that doesn't want to be treated like a princess.
As soon as she says yes, offer her your morning wood in such a way that it's difficult to say no. If she takes the bait, you've got a real gamer. If she blushes, laugh it off and take her to Denny's--cheapest grand slam around.

Hint: Get up early to secretly wash your penis in the sink, which will greatly increase the odds she will tolerate its presence near/in her face. You're welcome.


4. Lunch
After breakfast, you should definitely bang her in the back of your Honda Prelude, under the unfolded metallic sunshade, all private and sexy-like, because you never know when you might get another chance--a smart camel always drinks at a watering hole.
If mademoiselle says she has to go to work, run your sticky fingers through her knotted hair and suavely insist on picking her up for lunch in a few hours. If she hesitates, cry--anything more aggressive might scare her away, but a man's gotta fight for what he wants, right? Besides--nothing cuts worse than your own sword...
Once she relents, stay smart and keep in mind that ladies love places where you can get salads and ice tea for lunch.

Hint: Your local train station! The lunch counters in those places get lots of traffic (read: fresh!), also have perfect options for men (reubens!), and won't suck away that entire Andrew Jackson in your skyrocket...


5. Flowers
After a lunchtime quickie in the handicapped bathroom behind the Amtrak counter, as she endures that long, humiliating walk back to the office, kept alive only by that special 'glow,' all upset she had to leave you looking all cute and cuddly, crumpled up on the broken toilet seat, all sweaty and falling asleep, there's nothing a lady wants more than flowers.
So, if after all this courting you still care for her, don't drop the ball--spend.

Hint: The female of the species has a certifiable genetic weakness for red shit--get the cheapest red flowers you see at the CVS and you'll not only be a fiscal Einstein, but you'll prob be in like Flint for a second-round afternooner.


6. Dinner
Dinner is a tough one. It's like, 'okay, so I took her to breakfast and lunch, but now what? I'm out of ideas!'
Hero alert--dinner.
I know it's more expensive than a movie, I know it's a lot more pressure, I know there's a lot less chance of a hand-job, but if you're gonna marry this girl you gotta be able to sit across the table from her for an hour in an Olive Garden off the highway. It's just that simple--you'd rather find out now than later, right? Right.

Hint: Girls love a flashy car--so hang a tree from the mirror and put a bucket of soapy water, a sponge, and the dustbuster in your trunk, pull up outside the Home Depot, and give some starving dude $5 to do you up right for the night (or give him less--maybe start with $1 and bargain your way up!)

Bonus Hint: Hide a pack of Magnums in your glovebox and ask her to find something in there at some point. Can't hurt!!!


7. Engagement Ring
Once you've taken a woman to dinner--and if everything went well in the bedroom/backseat afterward (I'm talking anal here, folks, let's not beat around the bush! LOL!)--it is now appropriate to ask for the lady's hand in marriage.
Once you've casually dropped her off at her parents' house at 5am and coasted down the hill in neutral as you enter her name into your phone, you have a lot to consider before downing a half-bottle of Beam in the park and heading to the library to troll servicemerchandise.com for a good deal on a medium-grade cubic zirconium.
First off, do you still feel a non-herpes burning in your loins? That means you really love her and you should make an honest woman out of her--especially because there's a 50% chance she's already pregnant and you'll have to pay to raise the kid anyway, as well as for her to live in a trailer and smoke Virginia Slim 100s and drink a gallon of Carlo Rossi a day.
Trust me--it's cheaper to just marry her and make her sleep in the garage.

Hint: As far as the proposal goes, you should perform this act with the greatest of care.
8. Honeymoon
Once her wedding's over with--and she signed the pre-nup under the supervision of accredited legal representation--you need to make sure the honeymoon rocks. Bring plenty of bad American beer (you never know), a few changes of underwear, some wines, and a Playboy or three to keep you in the mood for the weekend.
As far as the location goes, that is really dependant on season--NASCAR, NFL, NBA, NHL--because you should always be sure to be where the action is. If for some reason you are are getting married in a rare window (does it exist? haven't our scientists worked this out yet?) when one of these seasons is not in full swing, I recommend Italy because they have good food and cool cars and it's where romance began and chicks love that shit.

Hint: Make sure to bring every sex toy your grossest friend has ever heard of, cuz ya never know--girls are freakier than we are, you know...


9. Forever 21 shopping spree
Now that you got a bride, you need to make ensure she cuts a certain profile on the town. She has to be classy, she has to be sexy, she has to look moneyed--or you will look quite the fool.
Recommendation: Take her to Forever21 and let her spend at least $100--this should net her a full week's worth of sexy dresses.
Once purchased and safely stored in your closet at home, hand over one dress for each blow-job delivered. Once they all fall apart two weeks later, you can simply put your better half back in nude storage til your next paycheck comes. Repeat.

Hint: Not only should everybody know she's the finest broad in town, but they need to know she's YOUR broad--do you have a spirit animal? Is it a tiger? If you don't know, it's probably a tiger, so make sure she picks up a faux-silk cape with an enormous roaring tiger face on it and wears it every time she leaves the apartment. Trust me--nobody will fuck with your little peach once they know she's 'yours.'


10. Toe Ring
Alright, so you made it to your second anniversary. Congratulations--you're now ready for a toe ring.
Remember when you bought one for that stripper you got pregnant in Michigan? Well, let's hope you were smart enough to get two for the price of one at Claire's, because once that bastard sucks air and the pangs of guilt wash over you like so many imperceptible, oddly-soothing breezes, you'll really wish you had one at no extra expense, to give your wife as a token of your secret guilt (or because you forgot your anniversary or maybe that you were even married).
If somebody around town has already told the missus about your adorable 'predicament,' best get a couple more toe rocks, to not only blind her with bling, but remind her on what side her bread is buttered.

Hint: With a toe ring, always err on the side of too big. If it doesn't fit on her piggy of choice, chances are it will either fit on a fatter one or she'll grow into it--the one thing you can count on when it comes to women is they always get bigger.


Well, I think the bars are about to clear out here, which means it's high time this ole minx hit 'cruise' control on the ole steering column, if you know what I mean.

Hope this information helps you in your romancing or, if not you, me.

Toodles!

- goodtime

_

Ten Dollars and Two Goats for the Ugly One!

Oh, this beautiful planet, this fantastic sphere...such resplendent secrets you hold in store!

Somewhere in southern Bulgaria--just south of the donkey, make a right at the at the weird-looking rock, if you see the rabid she-wolf chained to the petrified witch you've gone too far--they still sell women in the town square.

Even though I'm sure this is a tradition that has been a part of the Roma culture for a long time, interestingly, the ugly old mothers have yet to learn that they should NOT stand so close to their daughters and show the prospective husbands what their daughters will look like in twenty years. Yikes! And it's not like it was so easy a sale to begin with, mama!

"At the market in the village of Mogila near Stara Zagora, the price of a beautiful young woman is said to be several thousand levs/euros."

So...wait--how much do non-beautiful girls fetch? I mean, that would seem a more relevant question for this journalist to answer, seeing as none of the girls in the accompanying photos could be considered beautiful.

And what about interviewing some of the men, the vaunted customers? How do they save up so much money? What is it they do for a living? What do they look for in a bride when they go shopping? Do they check their teeth like they do those of horses? Is virginity prized in the women, yet never expected from the men doing the purchasing? How often do girls go to these before they sell, on average?

Why is there so little text accompanying these photos, about such a fascinating subject?

Can I interview the person who wrote this article? And then get funded to go cover this event myself next year?

I think the world would be a lot better off if I could, for some hard-to-describe reason...

_

I Feel Better Now

An overwhelming feeling of contentment washed over me a few minutes ago.

I wish you could have been there to see it, as the experience was transcendental and will never be repeated.

There I was, laying on my couch, sipping a good bourbon, allowing heavenly soul music to softly tongue my ears, pondering the problems of the weaker sex, when a little birdie came and told me that everything would be okay.

All lonely women have to do is read this douchebag's book and everything will be explained, solved.

Hurrah! The world is finally a happy place--all it took was to first make a worthless, self-obsessed poser rich!

What a small sacrifice! Let's do it again, people of the globe! Me next!

_