Nobody puts Fooler in the Corner…

Melbourne, Edward–

I think there has been some confusion as to my role in your lives.

I want to start out by saying that I don’t blame you.




That’s bullshit.

I do blame you.

But I do not blame you, entirely.

There has apparently been some world-wide misrepresentation of monolithic proportions, that you have blindly bought into, and attempted to apply to the relationship that exists between you and I.

So, I’m going to confront the fallacy of your thought processes head on.

Here goes.

My being a woman has absolutely no bearing on how “sensitive” or “caring” or “compassionate” I am, or how capable I am of “listening intently.”

Got that?

Any belief you have in my ability to successfully effectuate the foregoing—a belief that is entirely predicated on my biological composite—is woefully misplaced.

Now, I know what happened between us. I know the story all too well.

We started off sound enough. I was attracted to you, you were attracted to me. We exchanged numbers, struck up a flirtation, and to the fullest extent of my knowledge, were well on our way to a well-timed casual, bonefest, complete with late night phone calls, provocative text messages, and midday nooners. Score.

And, somewhere along the line, through no fault of our own—though, if we’re being entirely truthful, it probably had something to do with the fact that, Ed, your mama still makes your meals, and Mel,  you are steadfastly determined to marry “irrespective” with “regardless” resulting in that bastard child of vernacular, “irregardless”—we fell off.  We lost our sexy. Our jumpoff train was irreparably derailed.

And, though this fact is disappointing, it is what it is. I’ve accepted it. I’ve moved on. And, you know what? I’d assumed that the both of you had, too. Because y’all both have girlfriends. Well done, you.

And yet, I cannot seem to shake either of you. And it appears as though we’ve become ensnared in what I like to term, “the faux friend foible.”

The faux friend foible happens when two people, who have little to nothing in common, but share some mild acquaintance, are forced to be with each other in awkward situations, on a continual basis. You endure long, painful silences, and often, the person who cares the least about continuing the charade, and therefore opts to say nothing—typically me—is subjected to a never-ending stream of get to know you questions and stories so that the other, more caring conversationalist feels less like a huge dickhead.

It seems as though, both of you, are under the misguided impression that our attempted gallivant down beat-it-up lane should have resulted in a friendship.

Umm. This is incorrect.

I’m good. Really.

I don’t want to talk to y’all anymore. Seriously.

I need another male friend I’m not sleeping with like I need a hole in my fucking head.

That quota was damn near at capacity my senior year in college. I literally have no more room on my male friend roster.

And really, how dare you?

How dare you call my phone and proceed to bitch and whine about your girlfriend, Ed? Really, dude? Your girlfriend? You are going to call my house in the middle of the night, and talk about your girlfriend?

But the grande cajones prize really goes to you, Mel, cause you actually came over. You came over, and sat next to me on my couch, and looked at me longingly, and said flirty things to me, and then, you TOO wanted to talk about your girlfriend.

Now, like I said, you boys need not shoulder all of the blame yourselves, with respect to your faulty actions. We live in a society that has told you that women make great friends and listeners; that men can benefit from a woman’s perspective; that men should endeavor to facilitate more meaningful dialogues with the women in their lives.

That’s crap.

Unless you have an established friendship with a woman, these are the conversations/encounters you have with ugly bitches.

Ugly bitches don’t have anything better to do than sit around and hear about what’s going on in other peoples’ lives and relationships.  That is some ugly, self-loathing type bitch shit to do.

And maybe you don’t think I’m an ugly bitch. Maybe I’m not an ugly bitch. Completely irrelevant. You’re treating me like an ugly bitch. You’ve relegated me to ugly-bitchdom.

Mel, you sat here fully clothed for something like, two hours.

Two hours, Mel!

That was someone else’s time, you selfish sonofabitch. I know you love your girl, and I wasn’t expecting anything to pop off (this is obviously a lie) but, couldn’t we have talked about something else? It was pathetic. And then you were offended that I was blackberry messaging the whole time. Forgive me. I was talking to the dude who should have been in my house. The one who understands how to conjugate verbs and doesn’t whine like a bitchass on the couches of near-strangers.

I am NOT your shoulder to cry on.

I am NOT your willing ear.

I can’t be your ugly bitch, boys.

In an attempt to spare the remainder of my gender from the abject desexualization I suffered at both of y’all’s  hands, I’ve comprised a quick go-to list:

A Simple Rosetta Stone to Ugly Bitchdom—

Ladies, if you’ve known a man for less than 3 years and :

-he comes over in the middle of the night, just to chill, and doesn’t want nary a PIECE of ass—

You’re his ugly bitch. At the VERY least, there should be some semblance of sexual tension between the two of you. If there’s none, you’re like Sarah Jessica Parker’s redacted mole. You’ve got character, and you’re worth noting, but in the end, everyone can get on just fine without you.

Think about it. We’re grownups. Having your own crib, and being in close quarters within it is per se sexy.  It’s sexy of its own accord. The only factors which can detract from its innate sexiness are external ones like your socially retarded roommate, or your fatherless children, or internal ones—like this motherfucker thinking you’re his ugly bitch.

-he calls in the middle of the night to talk about other chicks—

BEST BELIEVE, you’re his ugly bitch. I don’t want to talk about your mama at 10 pm at night. Seriously, what man who has any interest in you at all calls you to talk about other girls? Right. No man. And if he’s your friend, that shit can be addressed between the hours of 9 am and 9:45 pm. A non-friend phonecall past 10 that isn’t a booty call is an ugly bitch call. That caller needs the wise, sage counsel of an ugly bitch.

-he says shit like, “you’re not like them, I can talk to you”—

You’re the ugliest bitch he knows. “You’re not like them…” should be read as, “You’re not [fine] like them.” “I can talk to you,” read as, “I can talk to you because I’m not intimidated by you on account of your intense grotesqueness.” Now, maybe I’m over-dramatizing. Maybe you’re just a down ass girl that men find it easy to talk to. But you wanna know another way to say “down ass girl that men find it easy to talk to?” “Ugly bitch.” And think about it. Do you really want to pour all your heart and soul into solving this man’s problems in the middle of the night so he can get off the phone with you and uncork someone else’s Moet? Really?  Hate yourself, much?

Mel, Ed.

I will be deleting your numbers henceforth.

Fuck what you heard.

I’m sexy as a bitch.


1 Response to “Nobody puts Fooler in the Corner…”

  1. 1 nat
    March 24, 2010 at 6:58 pm

    this is the funniest (read: realest) thing i have ever read. i got a few friends playing ugly bitch for dudes right now thinking that it’ll turn into something more. and they’re right, it will be something more, something like the biggest disappointment in their young lives.

    i wish it was socially acceptable to print this out and tape it to their doors under the heading: “a clue”

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a history of my meanderings….


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