Category / Relationships

by Edward Champion

An Open Letter to Fake Squealy Women

Dear Fake Squealy Women:

First off, allow me to distinguish between you and your counterparts: specifically, those genuinely squealy women or women with naturally adenoidal voices. I have no specific grievance towards this particular population cluster. Because they are, at least, authentic. Rather, my beef is with you.

Here’s the way it works: Every so often, as I listen or otherwise get my tongue tied up in knots over you, you open your mouth and begin to talk back, thus beginning an amicable colloquy. With most women, this is quite pleasant and intoxicating — particularly if you are smart, sexy and playful. But, with you, fake squealy women, what transpires during this rejoinder is something infinitely disheartening. You see, instead of responding with a natural voice, you decide to adopt a squealy and nasal air, as if the entire world has somehow transformed into helium and entered the confines of your skulls. There is a decided effort and highly noticable inflection in the words you speak. There is often fake laughter directed at statements we make that are not, in fact, jokes but sober ruminations that we are intending to share with you and feel you out on. Yet somehow you think that we have absconded with Oscar Wilde’s throne. What you put on here is clearly a performance. And yet you insist that this is the way you naturally talk. Little do you realize, fake squealy women, that despite being male and relatively clueless, we are not dumb. We do in fact talk with your friends and ferret out the truth.

Even in non-dating circumstances, fake squealy women, you still do this, particularly if you are employed in the public relations or human resources department. Why is this? Do you want to perpetuate this heinous gender divide? Do you want to sustain the atavistic notion that women are somehow dumber than men? Do you not realize how unbecoming and unattractive these faux oxygen-sapping vocal inflections are? Do you not realize, fake squealy women, that when you are over thirty and still doing this that you come across not as cute but sad?

My obsession with sex and the female anatomy is no less ineluctable, juvenile and boundless than that of my colleagues. Nevertheless, there is a clear line of demarcation between putting on a funny voice for a bit of adolescent fun and objectifying yourself by completely coming across as an idiotic airhead (when you are likely smarter). I’m hoping that I can appeal to all of you to stop this damn nonsense and speak with your genuine voices. When you have a conversation with a man longer than five minutes, I should point out that the man is not a policemen and this is not a speeding ticket that you are talking yourself out of.

Or perhaps, fake squealy women, you’re terrified of being yourself.

Very truly yours,

Edward Champion

by DrMabuse

Boringcakes

Heather Harvrilesky has the perfect response to a passive long-distance relationship:

This is how you find the man/woman of your dreams, stupids: You refuse to waste time on the man/woman of your loneliness-fueled spreadsheets. And if you can’t get worked up over anyone… well, Jesus, what is wrong with you? Can you get worked up over anything at all? Here in LA, lots of people wax romantic about movies, but when it comes to their real lives, they’re fucking numb and alienated and don’t see the raw thrill, the breathtaking drama of every little minute. Blahblahblah boringcakes, motherfuckers! The girl who made you your coffee this morning has beautiful green eyes, and she paints weird portraits of her customers and keeps chocolate and rope stashed in her nightstand and she reads books about gardening and she knows what she wants. You could spend the next two months in bed, honkwinders, getting tied up and eating chocolate and watching old movies in the middle of the night. You could be swooning and sighing and feeling like the world is opening up like a flower. So why are you watching “Survivor” with that guy who bores the shit out of you, and pisses you off, and doesn’t give a flying fuck about how you feel, ever, and mostly just wants you to get to the point and stop crying? Why are you heating up canned soup and wondering about the long-term viability of negotiating a reasonably satisfying coexistence with someone 3,000 miles away?

by DrMabuse

Match.com — Maintaining the Status Quo Since 1995

Well, if Haggis can do it, so’s can I. The Match.com Physical Attraction Test, purportedly millions of dollars and years in the making, is a disturbing image-oriented Flash thing that asks you such terrible questions as “If these were the only five women left on Earth, who could you tolerate?” Now how the hell can any vaguely humanistic-minded person answer that? Well, dear readers, you’d be surprised by how quickly you cross into darkness. Particularly if, like me, you’ve seen The Omega Man and Logan’s Run more times than medically recommended.

Make no mistake: This test is fucking evil. The phrasing of questions makes this test perfectly designed for nihilists, pyromaniacs and armageddon enthusiasts. Namely, people like me. Worse still, it’s all visual. Never mind if the lady I was sharing a sleeping bag in a post-apocalyptic Times Square could quote Robert Burns or engage in mischevious banter. There was a stage in this that reminded me of Press Your Luck, whereby you’re supposed to single out women you can’t stand. Except, in my case, I was concentrating on the women that I’d have no problem spending six lifetimes lovin’ and found it difficult for my libido-charged mind to reverse the polarity of the neutron flow.

The results would indicate otherwise:

The choices you made in the test suggest you have strong, automatic preferences for certain types of women. You made your choices quickly suggesting you have clear physical instincts.

Uh, maybe because I’m a dude and I’m more visual-minded, mayhaps? Or I was clicking desperately on the choices to make this hard Hobson’s choice objectification stop? You make the call, Match.com. You evil bastards.

But onwards.

My Favorite Features:

  • Your photo choices suggest a woman over 55 is probably getting a little old for your tastes (Seems a sick Freudian joke to start this out with.)
  • You seemed interested in dating a woman at least 30 or older (Yeah.)
  • So-called “Ecto-Mesomorphs,” with narrow chins and nicely angular faces (What the hell is this, Ghostbusters?)
  • Blue eyes (Oh, don’t get Kristallnacht on me, muthafuckas.)
  • Light brown hair (This morning, maybe.)
  • Wavy hair (Yeah.)
  • Straight hair (Yeah. But doesn’t that contradict my previous choice?)
  • Medium-length hair (Not quite.)

Unique Traits:

  • Sometimes, you like younger women, by a good gap. (Saturday night after a lot of Jamican rum? Yeah, a roll in the hay with an undergrad ain’t bad.)
  • Sometimes, you like women over 5 years older than you. (Damn straight.)
  • More unique than “mainstream” appeal (Fuck Maxim, anorexia and silicone implants.)
  • Thin, angular faces with a classic or refined look (Bingo again, but only if they look like Liz Scott or Ann Sheridan. Not that your culturally amnesia-charged minds would know anything about that.)
  • Cute, button or small noses (Cute? Fuck no. But I do like interesting noses.)
  • Glasses and the sophisticated and smart look that goes with them (What can I say? Me like smart women.)
  • You appreciate someone with a few extra pounds (As opposed to, say, the starving waifs you presented me with? Jesus, does “plus size” these days mean anyone who has more than one meal a day? If so, count me in.)

Not Your Type:

  • Women over age 55 (Again with the Freudian shit.)
  • Women under age 30 (Maybe because I might have, you know, specified this at the beginning of the test?)
  • High “mainstream” appeal, with little unique flair (We’ve covered this, I think.)
  • Long and narrow “rectangular” faces (Only if someone paid me to kiss Bruce Campbell.)
  • Thin lips (Yup, labia latitude’s a plus.)
  • Black hair (No. Anyone who knows about my obsession with Jennifer Connelly will testify to this.)
  • Curly hair (Not necessarily.)
  • Women of Black/African descent (Oh, bullshit. You want to play the fucking race card, Match.com? I clicked on hot mommas of all ethnic dispositions, as your “Maybe” photo collection, asking me why, will attest. Maybe because they’re, uh, hot? You didn’t exactly present a lot. Something like ten out of 100?)
  • Hispanic or Latino women (See above.)

How You Compare to Other Men:

4% Very attracted to women my type
14% Attracted to women my type
21% Somewhat attracted to women my type
61% Not at all attracted to women my type

Yeah, mofo! How you like me now, Match.com?

Body Types:

One body type that seems to appeal to you is scientifically called “Endomorph,” which roughly translates into solid, “plus-sized” women. She’s not overweight, but her big bones and large frame make her hard to miss. Endomorphs are definitely curvier than the other body types, with hips that are wide in proportion to shoulders. Although she is prone to gain weight over her lifetime, at this point she doesn’t have a “pot belly” or “love handles,” just nice womanly curves! As she ages and puts on weight, she usually carries it in her hips and butt. This type usually makes up 7% of single women. Telling signs of this body type include wide and curved jaws, round faces, “chubby cheeks,” a girlish look, a very short and wide neck, plus larger legs and butts.

In other words, the kind of woman that people had no problem with in 1962, but that carries a stigma today. Or as Elizabeth Hurley once said, “I’d kill myself if I was as fat as Marilyn Monroe.”

Breast Size:

While you may enjoy looking at different breast sizes, based upon the choices you made, you prefer a well-endowed woman with much larger breasts.

And while you’re conveying this earth-shattering piece of news, why not expound on the Third Law of Thermodynamics while you’re at it?

My Ideal Match:

matchcom2.jpgReese Witherspoon? I must confess, I like her as an actress. But, dear Match.com, you clearly do not understand the kind of women I fantasize about while I’m jerking off. As such, you have proven your test, purportedly millions of dollars and years in the making, to be irrelevant and silly.

But there’s a far larger issue here: Within seconds of taking the test, you sent me a list of profiles of women who “matched” my purported ideal. That may be fine and dandy with the Sears catalog set, but that disturbs me on multiple levels, Match.com.

So I have to ask, Match.com. Since you’re in the business of profiting off of instant objectifying of the opposite gender, how do you sleep at night?

by DrMabuse

Hustle Cussler Outta There

Clive Cussler has sued a production company over an unauthorized script. My hope is that he wins. Not because of the suit’s merits (or lack thereof), mind you, but a quiet $10 million payoff may stop Cussler from writing novels. That would be a truly philanthropic act.

More on Rushdie. He’s got a movie deal lined up. The Firebird’s Nest is a romance between an older man and a younger gal (even starring Rushdie’s girlfriend, a younger gal), but this is not — repeat, not — based on Rushdie’s life. (via Bookslut)

Ken Kesey’s 1967 jail journal will be published. It includes “two dozen color plates of collages Kesey made from ink drawings entwined with his handwritten reflections laid down in notebooks smuggled out by a buddy who got busted with him.”

The Elegant Variation demolishes the 2 Blowhards’ movie/book people argument (in fine satirical form, natch): “By the way, do you notice that (at least based on the movie people we know), he hasn?t really described your average movie person, but rather your average video store geek? And I?m willing to bet that if he?d been seated beside Tarantino at a dinner party before he?d made it big, he?d have found him an annoying little pest.”

Nell Freudenberger has compelling words of wisdom: “But then, ignorance is no excuse. It?s obvious to me now that you can do a terrible thing by accident.” Yes indeed. There are lots of things you can do by accident. Such as turning in a silly Yank-centric piece to Granta without so much as a major observation on Laotian culture, history or behavior. The essay, ironically enough, is part of Granta‘s “Over There: How Americans See the World” theme. But I’ll take J. Robert Lennon’s goofy piece over Freudenberger’s any day. Paula Fox has a essay up too, but you’ll have to pony up the clamshells for the hard copy.

And Rachel Greenwald believes that you can snag a husband with a push-up bra. But she fails to account for the fact that some men (myself included) assess the goods (if they can be called that or given a pronoun) naked and in private, conditions when said boobies are unhindered by faux, painful support, and that boobies, while spiffy, are a fringe benefit, rather than the chief draw. (via Sarah)