Dear Women, I’m on to you.

11 11 2009

Final

A note before reading this. Though there are venomous shots taken in this article, it is meant for ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES ONLY. Surely there are women that are not like this, just as surely as there are men that are total douche bags. The key, fair reader, is to identify with the parts you might be inclined to agree with, chuckle at the parts you find funny (if any) and blow-off 10 minutes or so at work. Nothing more, nothing less.

With that in mind, Rhyme&Reason is stepping away from music for the moment and providing our audience with insight into the single, female mind. We call it Him&Her, because it’s about relationships and shit and it lazily fits the template of Rhyme&Reason. Obviously this is the first edition, so there will be times when men get skewered as well. However, this is not one of those times. Enjoy.

Dear Women,

It’s time we had a talk. I’ve noticed lately that guys have been into you. Maybe it’s because you’re using new eye shadow, maybe it’s because you waxed your upper lip, maybe it’s because you finally grew into your feet. I don’t know. But what I do know is that when a guy is into you, and you’re not into him, you tend to throw out an occasional complaint. “Ugh, this guy is really digging my chili.” “It’s Ralph again, this is like the third time he’s called and I haven’t answered.” “George is texting me non-stop, he wants to take me out on a date.”

So then the inevitable question arises: “Have you told him you don’t like him?”

No, no you haven’t. That’s what you say, followed by the inevitable rationalization: “But obviously he should know I’m not into him.” And why is that? “Because I’ve told him like three times I haven’t been able to do anything when he’s asked me out.”

… Let that sink in for a second …

What is wrong with you people? If you want somebody to know you don’t like them, then you have to use the words “I” “don’t” “like” “you” in some sort of effective combination. Your vague excuses sound just like that, excuses, as in: “Oh not today, but try back again soon!”

And why do you do this? Why do you beat around the bush and use indirect methods of trying to put a guy down, methods that he wouldn’t be able to see even with Superman’s X-ray vision or some sort of Knight Rider car that had a bunch of neat gadgets in it? What is the reason for your mysterious, non-answer answer?

“Because I don’t want to be mean.”

Because you don’t want to be mean.

BULLSHIT. BULL-FUCKING-SHIT.

You don’t mind being mean, in fact you love being mean. If you didn’t love being mean, you wouldn’t have spent the last hour bitching about how everyone in your sorority/workplace/brothel is a slut, a drunk or a drunken slut. I don’t want to be mean? Bitch, if you didn’t want to be mean you wouldn’t be able to talk about anything. Pop Sugar, TMZ and Perez Hilton didn’t get a billion page views because you wanted to listen to a cavalcade of compliments.

(Which provides an incredibly seamless tangent to the fact that women are about 11 million times more shallow than men when it comes to judging women. “Oh, did you see the nail polish she was wearing? Her undertones are all wrong for that color top. She’s too pear-shaped to be wearing that, don’t you think?”

In fact, no, I don’t think that. I think if she’s got all of the appropriate female parts, two arms, two legs, I can pick her up and her face doesn’t look like she was an extra in Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” video, then we’re working with a pretty good-looking woman. If men held the same standards that women did when it comes to judging other women, the human raced would have died out before Jesus got the chance to be stapled to that crossbeam, because nobody would have fucked anybody. And then we’d all be going to hell, instead of just the non-Christians.)

No, the real reason you give vague non-answers to a boy you don’t like isn’t because you don’t want to be mean, it’s because you love the attention. Love it. Like Charles Barkley loves blow jobs. It’s like your own twisted game of Rummy, you’re just collecting the attention-cards of as many men as you want, waiting for that one card that’ll win the game for you, so you can lay your hand down and say, “I win, I’m done now. All of you other cards can go back into the deck.”

And the worst part — you women are like Japanese fishermen, you just throw the net out and take in anything that found it’s way into your net. Oh look, a pretty dolphin! DEAD. Look at the sea otter! DEAD. Is that a mermaid? EXTRA DEAD.

You don’t weed out the nice guys — probably because when it comes to dating guys, most of you can’t judge character for shit anyway — and spare them the misery.

Let’s all take a journey into Imaginationland. Women, I’d like for you to stop thinking about US Weekly, Lady Gaga’s vaginapenis and how romantic it was when Jim cut off his tie for Pam at their wedding (It wasn’t a spontaneous romantic gesture, the show is a scripted sitcom! I don’t demand the police throw Stone Cold Steve Austin in jail after he knocked Undertaker the fuck out with that steel chair. Because shit’s not real. Your real husband won’t be that romantic, so knock it off).

Instead, I want you to think about that good guy friend that you had in college, or high school. You know, the one that was nothing but nice for you, always helped you when you needed it (even times when you didn’t ask for it), the guy you could always depend on for anything. Remember him? And then remember how eventually, he revealed that he secretly harbored all sorts of romantical feelings for you? REMEMBER HOW YOU NEVER SAW IT COMING? LIARS!

It’s sooooo obvious when it happens to your girlfriend, and then it’s like a race to see who can say it first to her. “ZOMG Annie, he’s so into you are you blind?” But the second it’s on you, all of a sudden that shit is a bigger mystery than The Da Vinci Code. Because somewhere down the line someone told you he was into you, and what did you do? You feigned ignorance. So your friends gave you proof, requiring you to make up excuses so lame they could compete in the Paralympics.

Girlfriend: “Remember when he brought you chicken soup when you were sick?”

You: “Oh, he was already at Panera and he had a coupon that was going to expire.”

Girlfriend: “Or that time he picked you up at the house party when you were throwing up all over the place?”

You: “That was only because he was already on his way home and it was on the way.”

Girlfriend: “What about the time he denounced his family name, was banished from Venice and committed suicide after he erroneously thought you had died?”

You: “I think that was the plot of Romeo and Juliet.”

You know what’s going on, but somehow your brain chooses to take it at face value and nothing more, despite the fact that if you were into him you would deconstruct his every single move to determine whether or not you two were meant to be together forever. You know what you’re doing. I know you know.

So what’s my point to all of this? Stop. Stop it. Nut up and tell that man the truth. You don’t want to hurt his feelings? Fine, tell him your abstinent, tell him you’ve got a boyfriend in the peace corps, tell him you’re married to the crack pipe.

Or, here’s a fucking shocker, tell him you’re just not looking for anyone right now. This isn’t rocket science or brain surgery, it’s kindergarten-level communication. It’s “I got an 8 on my ACT but even I know that” basic. If you can’t perform this task, then just pack it in and give up on life now.

I’m not saying men aren’t at fault for a number of things, including war, domestic abuse and The Adventures of Pluto Nash, but right now we’re not talking about men, we’re talking about you women. I’m on to you, so you had better shape up or there will be lots of shipping going out.

With love (but mostly hate),

Rhyme&Reason

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4 responses

12 11 2009
Mary

Hmmm. I think I remember the title of the movie you are referencing being called “He’s just not that into you”.. not “Shedevil’s not that into you”. Communication is not exactly what men are known for themselves.

Im ready and waiting for the one where you skewer the men…. need a ghostwriter?

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