I’ve been watching a lot of Bravo lately. It’s not entirely because I can’t get enough of Andy Cohen and am completely obsessed with the Real Housewives of Everywhere (all true), but I feel like it is my duty as a lady. This summer I was living with three guys so sports were on the TV all the mother fuckin time. And not just on our one TV. We have two TVs in the living room and one in the kitchen so it was totally normal if I came home and the frat boys were watching a game on the main TV, had the XBOX MLB-some-bullshit on the other, and golf/NASCAR on in the kitchen. Side note: I have come to fuckin hate Sundays. I feel like Bravo is the only thing letting Comcast know that there is a classy broad in the house and I am attempting to balance out the estrogen levels.
Point is, I started watching everything. Millionaire Matchmaker – Loves. Million Dollar Listing – I’ll take it. Miss-Advised – Yeah sure, I guess, if there’s a marathon. The problem was I started listening to those slags as if they were the Mighty Opes and were in any way qualified to give out life advise. So, for about a month there I was giving my number out like it was Jesus Juice at Neverland Ranch. (I blame the slutty sexpert on Miss-Advised for telling me to “just say yes” to everything. I feel much more “in tune with my needs” when I say “Go fuck yourself, troll”.) But…
JUST BECAUSE I GIVE YOU DEM DIGITZ DOES NOT GIVE YOU PERMISSION TO BLOW IT UP WITH YO DICK.
For the love of Hades, why? WHY? When has that ever worked? It didn’t work for Favre. (Sweet Crocs, bro.) It hasn’t worked for any Congressman, EVER. (Even the guy named Weiner failed at the cock shot. Come ON.) Why do you think it’s going to work for you? I mean, congrats on your average/below average sized junk. Oh wait, you instagrammed it. Well, congrats on having junk from the 70s, Austin Powers.
Classmate J – Let’s call this what it is – a friendship of convenience. I don’t like you, I’m sure you don’t like me but we are the only people in this class not reading back issues of AARP or re-velcroing our Naturalizers. I will eat lunch with you because you don’t have to lather up your polident to tackle that shiny, red apple. But, when I ask you what we are doing for lunch, do not send me a picture of you in the hotel sauna. I know, I know. Girls are confusing and we are always speaking in code but “Where are we scoopin’ grub?” isn’t code for “Show me where you pee from”. It means I’m thinking Chipotle but now I kind of want a hot dog.
Bouncer V – It took me about two minutes to realize that this adorable lug wasn’t the brightest crayon in the tool shed. It’s sweet that you want to learn “moor” about me. Really it is. But unless you’re asking if I’ve ever played the lead in a Community Theater production of Othello you have the wrong fuckin “moor”. Don’t text me again. Oh and P.S.: the word “and” has a “d” at the end. I know it’s a doozie but there’s a lovely little ditty about boxcars and conjunctions that will clear that right up for you. And truly, thanks so much for the super original MySpace mirror shot. Your overworked traps and neglected mid section show your beefy but sensitive. Kudos.
The Bill Clinton – You’re right, Mr. Married Man. I did want to set myself on fire have a really great time on the date you tricked me into going on with you. It IS so weird that none of our mutual friends showed up and it was just the two of us. You’re such a great listener. I mentioned I wanted a dog and now you’re sending me a billion shots of you and your pooch. Oh, and one pic of your Wallace and Grommit. Aces. What’s my favorite sexual position? As far away from you as physically possible, Ted Bundy. Creep on, motherfucker.