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Showing posts with label Guy Assistance Program (GAP). Show all posts
Showing posts with label Guy Assistance Program (GAP). Show all posts

Tuesday, August 5, 2014

~ I Like Those Titties

...Was exxxactly the reaction I was hoping for when I dressed myself today. (Disclaimer:  ...Now the other day because, I'm a shit blogger.)  So, thanks, three guys' sittin' in the car in the parking lot at Lowes. 

It was pretty awesome to be minding my own fuckin' business running benign errands like buying screen to re-screen my slider and to be put in a position where my choices were to stride over to you and start slappin' every one of your guffawin' faces (which, P.S.  your Mom, sister, wife or daughter would have totally sanctioned upon discovering your behavior towards some random ass DIY capable chick) or ignoring your crass ass comment. 

Today I chose the latter.  You may be wont to believe that I chose that course of action because;  A) It wasn't any big deal.  2)  It was just a joke.  Or III)  It was a no harm/no foul situation.  ...Or any of the other completely bullshit reasons one uses to justify being a, well, I'd say dick, but that would be doin' a disservice to dicks.   It wasn't.  It was because there were three of you and I knew I couldn't take ya all when things inevitably got contentious.  So, congratulations.   You used your time here on earth today to be an asshole to some skirt who had the audacity to need to leave her house to buy something, and have boobs. 

Now these were grown ass men.  Forties?  50's?  Old enough to know that, "I like those titties" (replete with laughter) is lame, rude and as I mentioned earlier, asshole-y.  I've always found it vexing how guys, especially ones old enough to, ya know, know better (otherwise known as: older than 5) and those with daughters (/mothers/sisters/grandmothers/wife/et al*) somehow delude themselves into thinking speaking/treating someone else's daughter in a "I like those titties" way is acceptable and appropriate. 

In fact, if I were a bettin' chick I'd wager tens of dollars that if any one of those guys heard some other guy(s), "I like those titties"-ing their wife/daughter/sister/etc., as she participated in mundane tasks-- like, getting out of her car,  it'd be ass kickin' time.   

Today it wasn't. 

But only because I displayed a judicial use of good judgment.  Not because it wouldn't have been an appropriate reaction.  As I told one of my besties, AnonD, "it wasn't a, I had to fight 3 men situation."  In the moment nobody on the face of this earth wanted to fight 3 men more than me. 

Which for those keeping score cards is when and where the line is crossed between a dumbass comment that one may find offensive, and one that no fuckin' bones about it is offensive.  

Pro Tip: 
If a woman's reaction to your 'flattering' comment is
contemplating committing a violent act on you? 
Consider your approach a fail. 


Yep.  Always...  WTF, guys?


Obviously, "I like those tittles" isn't the biggest problem in the world.  Hell, it's not even the biggest problem of my day...  The point is that considering the possibility of fisticuffs with several dudes, due to that kind of 'everyday' type of comment as the result of pointing out that what they've just done/said is fucked up, shouldn't be a normal part of a (any) skirt's day.  ...And look.  I'm a big chick.  I'm average man height.  I'm not one who tends towards being intimidated, or feeling vulnerable to a guy simply because he's a guy.  But imagine that if a grown ass girl who's cold cocked a Chicago Po-Po flat on his ass into some bushes feels intimidated and vulnerable, what your 13 year old daughter (who hasn't had a lifetime of similar experience to draw from), or 5'2" sister (who isn't in any position to, even if need be, tussle with a 6' 2" dude) must feel in similar situations?  And what her situational 'coping' tactics must be limited to when she knows that speaking up and calling straight up bullshit, bullshit, is never going to be seen as an opportunity to reassess how much of an asshole he/they're bein', and is always going to be taken as an invitation to escalate to a situation. 

I wish I were one of those quick with a comeback folks.  I'm not.  Which is why my options are narrowed to ignore/cause bodily damage (and go to jail).  I know violence isn't the answer.  Or so I am told.  But ignoring isn't the answer either.   Not for women, and honestly?  Not for men.  I loathe the term catcall--  it does a disservice to what's really at play here...  There's nothing kitty cute about a man/group of men making a chick feel like she's in potential peril (from either doing nothing, or doing something) because he/they happen to cotton to the looks of her lady parts.  "I like those tits" and all of the iterations most XX-ers reading this are all too familiar with, isn't a 'boys will be boys' thing. 

Boys Will Be Boys Things:
- Leaving toilet seat up
- Cultivating toe nails as weapons
- Nut tapping
- Fart amusement
- Differentiating Phillips and ...honestly I don't even fuckin' know, I just call 'em "Twosies" and "Foursies" screwdrivers
- Bets resulting in embarrassing tattoo pay-ups

It's a far less nebulous thing than boys bein' boys.  And it sure as shit isn't a display of how any man worth his salt comports himself.  It's verbal sexual intimidation. What it's not is flirting.  Or being complimentary.  It's being a USDA grade-A douchebag.  Regardless of how many Axe commercials ya've seen, douchebaggery is not a quality chicks are searchin' out.  For women, the it's bad for you/us is pretty obvious.  For men, sexual verbal intimidation of chicks is bad for all guys isn't as readily recognizable, generally, but in case ya hadn't noticed societies who treat their women poorly are shitholes.  Get a globe.  Fuck.  I'm so old.  ...At least I didn't suggest an encyclopedia (for you youngin's an encyclopedia is the paper version of what we used to look shit up before Ask Jeeves was born.)    ...  Do a lil' Googling on regions where women are treated (mostly-ish) with a sense of equality (aka: r-e-s-p-e-c-t) and you'll see places you'd (if you had to move to another country for 5 years) be ok with livin'.  Places where women aren't tend to rhyme with; La-molly-a  and Math-gan-a-stan.  Societies that don't treat their women well are places that aren't even good for men.  (I'm not saying women are better than men.  I'm saying men are better when/where women are shown the respect of decent treatment.  ...Ya know, like being able to run an errand without 3 leer-y guys verbally accostin' you over the existence of your hooters... )  ...Which I know, is big picture-ing, but on a macro level?  Do you really want the cute girl you're about to chat up to be fresh off a "I like those titties" incident as her last point of reference when a male stranger making contact was involved?  Is that good for your business?  No.  No, it's not.


Verbal Sexual Intimidation,
here's what you can do about it:
(Guys)
If you are guilty of "I like those titties"-ing someone --  Stop that shit.  Immediately.  Seriously.

If you know/have seen/are witnessing guys who "I like those titties" girls/women --  Tell them it's bush league bullshit.  Remind them how little they'd appreciate some dude yelling that at their mother. (aka: See sumthin' shitty, say sumthin' shitty.)

(Girls)
If you are looking for alternate ways to address obnoxious assholes insistant on alerting you to their enjoyment of your rack, check out these options:

This...   #YouOkSis 

...These passoutables;   (BBG Legal Notification:  I, BBG being of sound-ish mind do hereby call dibs on the invention of the word passoutables.  Copyright pending.)




...And (what I wish I'd have been quick enough to have retorted myself, and am definitely gonna remember for the inevitable next time)  "You sound like you have a small dick." 


And now, some P.S.'s...

P.S.  The * she's somebody's sister, mother, wife, 3rd cousin 2x removed reasoning for why a guy shouldn't "I like those tittes" girls is actual bullshit.  A woman ought to be free from such things because she is a human fuckin' being.  Period.  End of story.    

P.P.S.  For the Official Record, I love when guys make their presence known and that they dig what I'm workin' with.  I'm a big fan of a man complimenting and/or flirting with me.  Big fan.  I've had entire days made by a non-asshole-y compliment.  Hell, a few weeks back I encountered some random guy who completely busted a move to hold a door open for me and commented on how pretty I looked in my dress.  (BBG:  "Thank you--  you just became my day-maker!")  Now did I catch him takin' a gander at my hooters?  Yes.  They rarely go unnoticed.  The point is at no nanosecond during this unsolicited interaction did I have the urge to hit him.  And honestly?  "I like those titties"?  If a guy who has actually seen 'em says that to me?  I'm gonna get very, 'yeeeaaah, baby' real quick.  To write this post off as the musings of an overly sensitive prude-y/opposed-to-any-overture chick is erroneous. 

P.P.P.S. (...Now I'm just tryin' to set a P.S. world record)  What was I wearin'?  What the fuck difference does it make?  I will say this;  I'm not so naïve as to think that clothes don't have the power to predicate how people treat you, they do.  Which is exactly why I didn't show up at Lowes sportin' a nippleless bra top and daisy dukes.  Even I'm sorry for that visual.  Ok, good sense and decorum kept that from happening, but honestly unless I've accessorized with an actual pole, slammin' soundtrack, some ping pong balls, a minimum drink requirement and a bouncer?  ...I wasn't dressed in a manner that one would reasonably expect to have to be dealin' with some assholes "I like those titties"-ing ya.  So what I was wearing doesn't really matter, now does it?  Fine.  Now that I've mentioned nippleless bras I feel like I should specify to avoid rumors gettin' started confusion;   A dress.  A lil' run of the mill summertime dress appropriate enough to pop into damn Lowes, and it literally revealed zero cleavage.


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Tuesday, March 12, 2013

~Not Sure If I Want To Date You? Really? You're Not??

In a sick and twisted kind of way a bad date is almost as exhilarating as a stellar one.  Both provide a rush of feelings, and have the makings of a story that is share-worthy, albeit for vastly different reasons.

Today's tale is of a date of the bad variety.  Honestly?  The really bad variety.  And I once had a date literally walk out on me during a lunch date.  (It was a second date.  He was peeved that I'd selected a 2nd lunch date and not delved into evening dining with him.  I thought I was giving a chance to a guy who'd seemed nice enough, who hadn't made the optimal impression on me in the first date a do-over, and that he should be grateful that I was granting him the opportunity.  [cocky much?]  He hadn't been a dick on the 1st date, just somewhat awkward, as some folks are around people they're just getting to know.  By the time Lunchgate II Electric Boogaloo became a real, 'two lunches?  That's not moving a relationship forward' (??) thing for him, I was starting to sense that my magnanimous acceptance for a 2nd date at all, was a big fuckin' mistake.  A faux pas that became pretty crystal clear by the time our meals arrived.  By then he had turned into a dick.  But you don't have to take my word for it.  When the server brought the bill--  a bill that made me feel like $8, $10, whatever his lunch cost, was a small price to pay to know that I'd never have to spend another minute with him.  --It turned out he also thought this guy was an ass based on their interaction, that he took his meal off before he presented the bill and made some now forgotten good riddance type comment.)

...Sooo, when I say I know a lil' sumthin'-sumthin' about a bad date, I'm not just talkin' smack.

Now, the newest addition to my list of shitty dates [occupancy 2] this guy.  This guy is some guy I'd exchanged a few emails/calls with last year before I started seeing A#1Guy.  When I came back on the market, he touched base and I agreed to check him out.  Fast forward to the other day.  ...So, he's exploring moving here and doesn't know his way around, therefore I'm the planner.  No problemo.  I used to be a concierge for a downtown hotel.  I know all kinds of places 'round these parts.  I ask if he's thinkin' drinks or dinner?  He says dinner.  Fine.  Dinner is usually more of a 1st date time commitment than I'm willing to make.  (I am an uber slow eater.  Like, World Record Guinness book s-l-o-w). Buuuuuutttt, he has; A) waited more than a year and 2) has traveled from a different state to check out housing/job market/etc. and moi.  So dinner it is.  I inquire if he has a taste for anything specific, he says Italian.  ...Then he says-- and this should have been my official red flag that things were not going to go well--  "Olive Garden or Red Lobster, anywhere's fine."


Come on.  Really?  O.G. Olive Garden?  Listen.  I've had some wonderful eatin'-too-many-bread-sticks-dipped-in-alfrado-sauce/it-was-convenient-for-us-all-Olive-Garden meals.  But never would I find myself in any other city and chose the chain restaurant I can have a block away at home.  When traveling, I say ALWAYS suss out some local place.  So right then and there I knew this wasn't gonna go well. 

I pick a (local) place.  I pick him up because I'd never be at the mercy of some strangers whims of my transportation.  (Copkid rule #14)  Dinner was fine.  As I mentioned to a friend, "at no point did I have to resist the urge to lunge across the table at him with my fork," but I had already decided that there would be no second date.  Now as I mentioned earlier I am a irritatingly notoriously slow eater.  Things weren't going the way of the Titanic yet, but I was in not interested in prolonging our dinner cruise any longer than necessary either, so even though I was a scant 1/3'd of my way through my meal, when the waiter cleared his empty plate and offered me a box, I jumped at it.  Because he was such a quick eater, I felt like I looked like a bad date if I dropped him off within the hour.  Plus when the check arrived I asked if I could pitch in I'm not a havin' a guy have to pay for dinner when I *know* I'm not diggin' him type of girl.  He said no.  I asked again.  He said no again and I said thank you.  ...And then he said, "you can get the tip if you want to."  Really, hoss?  Really?  The tab was like $37, seriously, what's the big deal about getting the tip too at that point?  If you're going to be a gentleman don't puss out on the last $10-15??  Unfortunately for me I only had a $1 and a fifty, in terms of cold hard currency.  In the name of tryin' to be a decent person I suggested I pick up a drink on the way back to drop him off to make up for the tip he was now on the hook for.  Why the fuck didn't I just ask the waiter to break the $50?!? 

We arrived at some lil' spot directly on the way to return him, we each ordered.  Again, things were fine at first.  Actually until I was about 1/2 through my beer, which is when things started to go adrift.  And by 'adrift', I mean, batshit crazy. 

Now kids, I do more stuff than I think people notice, super deliberately.  It was not happenstance that we found ourselves sitting at the bar (as opposed to a table/booth) so that I could face the bar directly (straight on) and not give him the impression that I was into him by body language tells (like turning legs/body towards someone indicating interest).  So we're chatting and my head is ever so slightly turning his direction from time to appropriate time.  Regular minutiae.  Then he asks me if I want kids.  I donno about you, but that's not my idea of first date chatter, but whateves...  Then he asks me about my beliefs on abortion.  ABORTION.  For those of you who don't know me, I'm not one to start stirrin' the pot by bringing the subject up with folks unsolicited or not in context to what's already being discussed, but I'm also not one to shy away from answering most direct questions with a direct answer.  So I answer.  (blah, blah, fuckidy blah, if you really wanna know my stance click here [Open Letter to JS]) 

 

Suffice it to say, his views and mine did not sync up.  While I'm only 1/2 through my first beer, he's already ordered a second round (which beer #2 is now sitting in front of me) so now I'm starting to do the math. 

   He is horrible
+ I am Catholic, therefore do not believe in wasting alcohol
-------------------------------------
= I've gotta start fuckin' chuggin'

(Actual post-date status update:  "I'm having trouble remembering the last time I was so happy to be home from a date. As I started my second beer, I wondered the appropriateness of shotgunnin' it so that I could wrap it up sooner. ...And how I could shotgun a bottle.")

Mercifully, he wandered off in search of the men's room, which is when I qualified for the 2013 Worldwide Beer Chug finals.  When he returned I was mere nanoseconds from having completed my remaining 1 1/2 beers he sat down and completely turned towards me, which is when I discovered he had very bad breath.  Before the words, "well, looks like it's that time..." could form in my mouth, he asked me if I am, the quote PMS-y sort of girl unfuckingquote. 

I thought answering his PMS question by looking him in the eye for a silent moment and asking him, "did you just ask me if I'm the PMS-ys sort?"  (Him:  Yes.  [slightly less maniacal chuckle than what it sounds like in my head now]  Me:  [up nod]  Alright.  [followed by silence and the Official BBG Reeeally? look]) would signify that this had come to a conclusion.  A poor one.  Right?

Answer:  Wrong. 

Nope.  After a pretty quite, and thankfully, quick ride to drop him off as he was exiting the BBGmobile he offered up that he'd be available for a second date the following week.  I said that I had a lot of things going on requiring my attention and that that might not be a possibility. Question:  Is there any plane of reality where that reply isn't understood to be nice-speak for, 'fuck no'?  Apparently it wasn't translated by my date because he then asked if he could have a kiss.  Now honestly, I just want this whole experience to be finished before I flip the fuck out become his story of this crazy ass bitch date who once cussed him the fuck out, ya know?  I'm trying so hard to be a decent person and a keepin' it classy kinda broad.  After an awkward pause as I allowed my inner voice to reason out the best/easiest/quickest plan I offered my cheek.  Again, no one could possibly construe that as, 'eh, things didn't go great, but she could still be interested', right?

Answer:  Wrong.

How do I know?  Well, BigBrownGirlWorld hostage resident/visitor, bright and early the next AM I received a text from Mr. Horrible Date:  "Nice to meet you.  Not sure if you want to date."

Huh?  I did everything but chew my own fuckin' arm off to flee your presence and you think there might be a possibility that I do want to see you again? 

I resisted my immediate urge to respond with, 'Really?' by realizing that would likely open up a can of back and forth worms that frankly I didn't want any part of.  He had already stolen 90 minutes I'm never getting back.  Plus, contrary to popular belief, I sincerely do try to not be a bitch.  So I exercised the option of coolin' my fuckin' jets before replying.  (Gold star, me!)  A plan that was quite successful.  ...For the first couple of hours.  Then I spied a call coming in from him, that I ignored.  Once again I attempt to high road it--  actually I gave him credit by thinking to myself, he's probably butt dialed.  Moving on.  Serenity now, etc.  About an hour later I received a second call from him.  Nope.  That doesn't seem desperate/crazy at all. 

For Clarification:  I swear to you, it's far more about me trying to keep control of myself and my words/actions than me ignoring or torturing this guy.  I know me.  I am nice.  I want to be nice.  And I know that when I'm not nice, it's not, 'oh, that's not very nice'  --it's 'oh, now that fuckin' chick knows how to be a bitch!'  I know there's not much gradual progression from, I might have to kick that guy in the balls to ...and I will have a good Shiraz with 'em once I've cut them [balls] off and eat them, with me.   


...So I do try to keep myself in check about gettin' testy (pun not intended, but tee-hee-able nonetheless) as best, and when I can.

I willfully choose to ignore this call too in lieu of addressing it the next day, hopefully in a less gettin' ready to hurt your fuckin' feelin's calmer state.

Before I could reach such a peace-y place, I received yet another text.  Knowing that I had to, before texting back  Nice to meet you too.  Quick question.  What brand of tampon do you use, Mary?  Just curious. ~BBG  P.S.  Fuck off. something inappropriate, come up with a string of words that would not incite a back 'n forth, or that could be misunderstood for some other meaning, without being bitchy.  I considered what I would want to hear if the not interested shoe was on the other foot.  And considered that there was no possible way I could retain even a shred of self respect if I thought I'd reached out more than once to some guy I fuckin' met once, and they hadn't gotten back with me and I didn't pick up the hint.

I came up with [text]:  I apologize for the delay in reply.  No we will not be dating.  I wish you the best of luck with your search.

I thought this all went without sayin' I was being nice.  Kind in the, I don't want you to waste one more second of your time wondering if I'm interested.  And kind in the, this is a done deal, the door is closed/I'm not giving you any stringin' along types of phrasing. 

Given what had actually gone down, could this really be surprising info to this guy??  

Apparently, yes.

His reply?

"Wow"

Wow??  ...Didja honestly think that went well?
 


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Friday, February 8, 2013

~When Is The Proper Time To Show Your Penis? (aka: An Ordinary BBG Night Out)

Time:   19:45 (7:45pm for non-military time understanding visitors)
Place:  BBGWorld HQ
Date:   Tuesday


(ring-a-ding-ding)

I answer the home phone (yes, I'm one of the last 4 people in America with an E.T. phone home phone).  The voice on the other end curses me out? greets me in french.  I somewhat expected my friend Somp to be on the other end returning my call from earlier in the evening.  Somp parlez  français.  At the same time I'm answering "bibliothèque" to the query of how I'm doin'.  --Mainly, because bibliothèque (translation: library) is the only word I remember from long afuckin'go high school french class, that I didn't even really excel at even then.  Somewhat, because I'm an ass. 

Simultaneously, my cell started ringing, adding to the, 'whaaaaat is happening?' experience unfolding.  I didn't pick up the cell.  It was an unfamiliar number, which is the A - #1 way to get me to not answer a call.  Plus, I was already speaking with Somp.  Until more words were exchanged and few seconds later I thought, 'This.  Is.  Not.  Somp.'  I learned, after a super classy and amazing that I have any friends at all, "who the hell is this?", that I was in fact talkin' to my pal Ghoulia (other BBGWorld Ghoulia tales).  Who was with another former co-worker, (MOK [MOK's BBGWorld history]) back in the last bastion of metric holdouts 'Mercia for a few days, at one of my all time favorite dive/hole in the wall adult bev-y serving establishments, asking if I'd like to come play.  Random last minute plan?  Sold.  I'm in.

I scurried around to make myself quasi presentable to those who's names aren't Uncle John (-- my d oh double g, who is quite accustomed to seeing me in some pretty sketchy home sanctioned outfits [Uncle John pics/posts]).  And when I say 'presentable', I mean;  Not nakid.  Which as I hate almost all of my cold weather clothes, is in fact, the best I can hope for.  The extent of my gettin' ready hub bub was 3 minute make up, brushing and re-ponytailing my locks and deciding between a hoodie sweatshirt or a fleece-y zip up, as I had already decided that it was a snow boot kinda night.  (Fashion Declaration:  Total legit snow boot wearin'.  It was actively snowing.)  Clearly, I did not give a fuck about lookin' good/decent.


In about pizza time (30 minutes or less) I'd made my way to the rally point to visit my friends, my friends, who'd become the whoo-hoo girls, self admittedly, by the time of my arrival.  There were several strangers at their table, but as Ghoulia and MKO shouted, "BeeeeeBEEEEEGEEEE!!" at the top of their lungs as I came in, they weren't strangers for long when I reached the table and said, "hello strangers.  In what may not come as a surprise, I am BBG, nice to meetcha."  (I find it's best just to let people know what kinda asshole you are right up front, so as not to waste anyones time if that kinda ass is not their kinda person.  It's a public service, really.) 
 
The new stranger people all seemed very nice.  Except for this cat who I'll call, 'Mike', in large part because his fuckin' name was Mike.  Mike seemed, um, hinky?  Tragic?  Full on alkey?  The survivor of a substantial traumatic brain injury with a low filter as a result?  (Disclaimer:  I am not a doctor, nor do I play one on tv.  Please do not substitute my medical diagnosis and/or judgements for that of your own good fuckin' sense, or the advice of your medical professional.)  I don't know what his deal really was?  But I know that one of the new strangers (and Ghoulia friend), a chick named Cleavage, wasn't havin' any part of it. Several times Cleavage told him, "you are not part of this conversation."  Which to many would signify a super time to do something else.  For instance, any of the other 31,47,898,524,778 things one could be doin' instead of tryin' to hone in on a gaggle o' girls, who other than punching you in the testicles, have exhausted all other means of shoo'ing you the fuck away. 
 
Nope.  Mike was insistent on being the proverbial 'bad penny', who just keeps poppin' up.
 
(BBG Story Inside a Story:  Someone was playing the jukebox.  Which after 1-3 beers will prompt a severely ungifted brown girl of size to sporadically break into a misguided, and disappointing for everyone within ear shot, sing-along.  [World:  I am sorry.]  Musical selections had been a perfectly fine. [read:  I like a crazy ass wide range of types of music/artists]  ...Until I heard that fateful and start scanning the room for a sharp object to either plunge into your ears or to slit your wrist inducing musical question, 'Would you know my name if I saw you in heaven?' [Eric Clapton] By this juncture we were chatting with another random stranger guy who we'd named Dimples, who had had the colossal misfortune of stumbling upon our table.  I asked Dimples, "know what this song makes me think of?" [who, even though he'd just made our acquaintance, I'm pretty sure already knew the correct answer to that question is:  I couldn't have any fucking idea.]  "...Finding the ass who played this so I can kick him in the balls."   Not 5 minutes later Mike returns for another whirl at How-To-Socialize-With-Others, when out of the blue he asks (if the three of us left at the table) if we liked the song that was playing.  I immediately prepared my rubber hose and turned my light to his eyes asked if he had also played Tears in Heaven?  Surprise, surprise, sur-nofucking-prise, Mike was indeed the person who's balls I wanted to introduce to my big ol' clunky snow boots.  [testicles is becoming a theme with Mike, ain't it?]) 
 
 
Whoo-Hoo Girl #1 (Ghoulia), moi, Whoo-Hoo Girl #2 (MKO)
 
Each time we collectively thought we'd shaken Mike, he returned.  It was the real life equivalent of one of those zombie shootin' games where one head shot won't kill them, you have to repeatedly shot them in the head to put them down once and for good.  ...And none of us had enough ammo.  At some point, Mike was regaling me with a story of a hotel he GM'd on the Cape (Cod) which seemed like decent progress in interpersonal interactions for him, so I engaged, as I too have a background in hotels (and a history with Cod).  My reward for not rochambeau-in' him striving to be a decent human being?  Was being told that his property hosted a swingers club routinely.  ...And the next thing I know a grainy cell phone pic was being presented to my eye orbs showing a photo of, what I'm confident exceeds the manufacturer recommendations for maximum capacity of nakid people in a hot tub stew of swirlin' chlorine and come.  As if that wasn't more than enough Mike-information than I needed for a lifetime, Mike then proceeded to show me a picture of his cock. 
 
(Special Note To Guys:  I've tried to be sooo helpful to you with the BBG Guide to Gettin' Chicks (officially known as Guy Assistance Program/GAP).  Perhaps it's my fault?  Maybe before now I haven't expressly given you this valuable tidbit, but the appropriate time to show a chick your cock shot, is if/after she asks, 'yoooooou, don't have a deceptively generous angled photograph of your twigs and berries I can see, do you?'.) 
 
Thankfully, this was the exact moment MOK and new stranger acquaintance, Dimples (Ghoulia had already had the good fuckin' sense to have taken leave of us) returned to the table.  Leaving my only option as a conversation re-starter as, "sooooooooooo.  Mike just showed me an unsolicited picture of his cock."  Know what'll get a whaaaaat the fuck look from your friends?  That as your welcome back to the table.
 
Interestingly enough, straight up Nelson Muntz 'ha-ha-ing!!' coupled with a few well placed, 'what the fuck dude?'s' and 'I like how from this angle your dick reaches your shoulders', (...the last statement is exactly why MOK and I are friends)  wasn't enough to persuade Mike that it might be time to take your sad, cracked out ass home.  Alas, finally, a friend of his arrived to Calgon take him away. 
 
What.  A.  Night.  With the exclusion, or possibly due to Mike.  Even now, I'm not entirely sure.  It's exactly why when random adventure comes knockin' at my door, I say, yes.  While an ordinary BBG night out does provide a giggle, it also provides a lesson...  
 
Today's GAP/Guy Assistance Program Lessons for XX-ers:
 
-  Do remember;  If the table thinks you're the weird creepy guy, you can't, I repeat, cannot recover from that.  (Even if you and your mom dispute it, validly, or delusionally.)  Ones perception is their reality.  (Even if it's not yours.)  Next time be more mindful of what your behavior would lead others to perceive about you.
 
Do assess.  From time to time ask yourself;  Am I being a douchebag?
 
Take a fuckin' hint.  (Even if you don't like the hint being given.)
 
Refrain from showing unsuspecting skirts a photo of your cock.   
I cannot believe I'm legit having to type that...
 
It's important to note that digital dick displayin' Mike went home with a carryout 6 pack and some guy who had come to collect him.  Meanwhile, Dimples didn't offer up a full technicolor penis shot, but instead employed a tactic called Operation I'm Probably Not Planning on Tying You Up To A Pipe In The Basement and ended up spending a lil' car warmin' up make out time with a real, live girl and scored some digits.  Only you can decide which guy you'll be.  Choose wisely.
 
  
Lastly, I don't want to alarm anyone, but I'm 99.44% sure that Charlie Manson has escaped.  And that I shook his hand that night.  @lil'murderin'doppleganger.com
 
(Good times, Ghoulia & MOK.  Good.  Times.)


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Monday, November 14, 2011

~Size Matters (Yes. A Penis Post)

Granted, there are a lot of things I don't understand in life.  The sheer volume of things I am completely ignorant about is substantial, including, but not limited to:
  • How metrics work.
  • Why people like soccer.
  • If Pi Day should accurately be celebrated on March 14th, or June the 28th.
  • How people can eat carrot cake. 
  • Why I can't get a moonburn.
  • How we have culturally gotten to a place where "reality star" is an actual thing.
  • How jake brakes really function.
  • Why guys always have to inquire about penis size.
It's framed in different ways.  All ways I hate.  From "I hope I'm big enough for you", to its sad sack kissin' cousin (generally proceeded by some self effacing statement) "...blah, blah, fuckidy, blah, I know I'm not the world's biggest guy".   As soon as I hear those words starting to tumble outta his mouth, well, in truthiness, first I get all 'don't say sumthin' stupid' and quickly work my way to, 'oh Lord, what kinda words am I gonna have to string together that sound large positive but that aren't actual lies'. 

I guess, ultimately I don't fundamentally understand two things about the big (sorry, no pun intended) deal of the subject.  I)  The seemingly compulsive need to get a status update from everyone who sees it on their feelings of its size, or Dos) how, even at middle age, it's still somehow a subject you still haven't come to terms with worthy of some kinda uncomfortable discussion. 

I guess I can't speak for all girls, but I'm equally as confident that I do not just speak for myself here;  Penis' unless they are crazy ass small or crazy ass big, just are.  Don't get me wrong, we heart them, we just aren't obsessed about matters of length and girth.

We're girls for fucks sake.  If we can't hold our own hand out and guesstimate with any sort of accuracy of how many inches it is, then what makes a guy think that our vagina has the magical properties to discern the difference between 6.75" vs 7.25"?

Like I say, we're gonna notice a micro-cock.  And for some this will mean that they will immediately disengage themselves from the discovery moment situation, go directly to the bathroom and return with a Meryl Steepesque deliverance of the following line;  "Drats!  I've started my period."  (Apologies to a blond, blue eyed, dreadlocked, ska band dude from a million years ago.)  Perhaps it makes me a bad person, but a lie period fakery seemed like a far better option than any kindly delivered version of the truth I could come up with at the time, and while I didn't know what to say, I knew where it was time to be.  A:  Somewherefuckingelse.  Far, far away from the land of Ohhellzno... 


Conversely, we're gonna worship notice a monster cock.  (tee hee hee...Monster cock.  All of the sudden I think I should alert the Monster drink people that I think I can be a verrrry helpful addition to their marketing team.  Feel free to email me to discuss my salary requirements:  thebigbrowngirl@hotmail.com)

A monster johnson is indeed a special kinda blessing.  But it's like gossamer, the Loch Ness monster and Arsenio Hall.  Hardly seen.  Well, I guess maybe I shouldn't say "hardly seen" when referencing Biggie Smalls.  (BBG code named due to his 5' 7"ishness stature, yet schlong of an NBA-er.  And not Spud  [the notably tiny, dunkin' b-baller].  We're talkin' full on Shaq territory here.)  Everyone with good reason has seen his cock.  I've been seeing that cock for 20+ years.  I've seen it because we used to get it on back in the day.  (Fine.  And more recently, so what's that make it, back in the hour?)  And when I say everyone, I mean e-v-e-r-y-o-n-e: 
 
...LB2'd has seen it.
...I've seen him drop trow more times in public than my abacus will allow me to figure.
...Once a coworker who had a part time job at a concert venue who I told Biggie Smalls to find and say hello to as he saw the whatever show, returned to work the following morning to report that she'd seen his junk.

Biggie Smalls is fully aware that he has nothing to worry about size wise.  The only thing he has to worry about is how he's gonna explain the public indecency charge he's bound to rack up some day, but whateves.

Most guys aren't as unfortunate as ska dude, nor as fortunate as Biggie Smalls. 

Most guys are The Other 69%:  


(The Penis Spectrum)

As you can see, most guys fall within the parameters of perfectly acceptable.  (Also known as "regular", "fuckable", "normal" and "you are here".)  Study thisKnow this.  Accept this.

There is no shame being in The Other 69%. 

It's the sweet spot.  You can get laid, but you nobody's bothering you with pesky plaster casting sessions, or giving you nicknames like 'The Hedgehog' (unfamiliar? - click here)

So men, here's the deal.  This is what you need to know about penis size~

Asking us about your penis offers up waaaaay too many opportunities for your girl to hurt your feelings.  Or lie.  How are either of those good for you?  The truth is that if we've been with more than two guys, we've probably seen bigger.  Now, you don't reeeally want us to say that, do ya?  On the other hand, do you want to be with a fibber who tells you that you're walkin' around with God's gift between your inseams?  It puts us between a rock and (clears throat) a hard place.

Realize that "bigger" might keep us there and happy until breakfast, but "regular" combined with other factors (personality, compatibility, etc.) can keep us happy for life.  And I don't know a girl who wouldn't trade great until breakfast, for good for life.  Every.  Fucking.  Time.

Accept this as a read between the lines thing.  Q:  Do you know when I have a, 'so you're ok with me being a big, brown girl' chat with a guy?  A:  Never.  Why?  'Cause if they're calling me, kissin' me, or roundin' third and headin' for home (Apologies, Joe Nuxhall for involving you in naughtiness.) I can read between the lines enough to know that he at least likes this big, brown girl.  Good enough.  (Check.)  No awkward conversation needed.  Listen, if we've spied it and didn't flee the scene, what you're packin' is workin' for us.  Can't that be good enough?

The size convo never comes off as confident.  At best it's needy.  At worst it's compliment fishing.  It's the 'does this make my ass look fat' of men.

Confidence adds an inch.

Knowin' how to most effectively use what your maker gave ya adds 2".  ...But that's a post for a different day.

In the meantime, say it loud, say it proud:  I AM THE OTHER 69%!



UPDATE:  Here Are New Numbers On Average Penis Length (Science of Us)  3/3/15


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Thursday, August 11, 2011

~The First Move: Us vs. You (GAP/Guy Assistance Program)

If you're interested, wait, if you're interested and you realistically think that we would have any interest in you--  that somewhere on the plane of "that could happen" reality that we would date you, you're going to have to make the first move.

Fair?

No.

It puts undue pressure on you and creates many more opportunities for possible rejection.  Boo hoo.  Too fucking bad.  Know what else isn't fair?  That we have to expel seven, 8, 9 pound, slippery, wiggling humans from our vagina's.  ...Oh, and after 9-10 months of having no booze.  Bras.  That we bleed 4 days a month.  Pantyhose.  'Come on now, you wanna talk fair?  Howz about earning less than your male counterparts?  Or paying more for everything from razors to clothes and car repairs, haircuts and dry cleaning.  Plueeeze. 

If you want to get into a pissing contest about fair, women are going to win every time.  So put your big boy pants on and suck it the fuck up. 

It's not to say we won't/can't make an initial contact, but the fact is we're girls and we're probably not going to do that.  We realize there are a blue bazillion arguments you can make for the case that girls should/could make a first move, no matter how persuasive or merit based those points may be, they all will ultimately leave you with a big ol' terminal case of blue balls.  This is a classic do you wanna be right, or do you wanna ultimately get laid conundrum.  If you feel we should meet, step up and hit the muther fuckin' send button, walk over and say hello and stop being so chicken shit.  Sometimes things you want simply, inexplicably fall into your lap, but most things in the world that you want require work, effort and attention (and a bit of luck).  And like with all things, sometimes your work yields bubkiss.  And sometimes, yes rejection.  But sometimes it pays off big time.  It's the the lottery rule.  You've got to play to win.  With limited exception, we aren't going chasing after a guy.   Again, not fair.  Again, suck it up.

First of all, this isn't some "rule" thing we're subscribing to.  It's an ingrained thing.  It's the natural order of courtship.  It's the guys responsibility to make an initial move.  That's why guys send a girl he fancies a drink when he sees her across a crowed bar.  You've got to capture our attention.  It's contrary to our DNA as women to make a move.  (Again, sure there are girls who are more comfortable and likely to do so, but most of us are not cut from that cloth.)

Think of the myriad of things skirts do to in order to be with you guys.  Do you really think the women you see at MMA want to be there?  Hellz no.  Basically you owe it to us, for all of the things we do after, because you to make the first move.   Consider it a pay it forward investment.  You're men; man the fuck up.


It's not fair.  But It's the truth.

Jump if you feel froggy.  (If you're not, rest assured, some other smart guy is.)


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Saturday, July 9, 2011

~Why, Trend? Why?!? (GAP/Guy Assistance Program)

In a continued effort to help online guys everywhere, we're revisiting the Claymore laden land of profile photos.  Of all of the, um, "interesting" photos we've seen there seems to be a few very popular and very bad trends we recommend you avoid.  ...In fact, as if your life depended on it, because your dating life actually does.  That is, if you are looking to appeal to chicks...

Bad Pic Trends to Avoid:

The Look At My Nipples
Thank you Somp for coining the phrase, "I dig guys in shirts"!! 

The I Have No Friends

Guys, it's not the hardest thing in the world, it's not like asking for directions for fucks sake.  It's asking a someone (friend, family, stranger on the street) to take a quick snappy for you.  Clllllllick!  Done.  The cell phone/mirror thing is played out, does not yield your most favorable or flattering best foot picture forward, and is fixed with 7 words; "Will you take a picture for me?" 

 
The Drive 'N Click
Yeah, you gotta car.  Got it.  ...Maybe it's because we're girls, and are generally only soooo interested in cars, but we just don't understand the obsession with in vehicle pics.  While not the largest of photo offenses, it's not something that's gonna make us take any sort of special note of you either.  

The Nobody'll Recognize This Is Me With Shades Pic

Dear Guys,
Sunglasses are not, I repeat, n-o-t a disguise.  If we know you, we'd be able to recognize you regardless of your shades.  Fail.  Choosing to wear sunglasses does keep us from seeing your peepers, which as it's frowned upon to walk around with your junk out, eyes are one of only a scant few other physical parts we have any interest in at all.  Sunglasses on your only, or every pic is the equivalent of a boy burka.  You're hiding something that is more than likely gonna be a huge asset for you, dumbass.
Love,
BBG, on behalf of girls everywhere.  Literally.

The Well, My Hands Are Clean (we hope!), Might As Well Take A Picture Photos

Seriously guys?? ... You're out? ...Throwin' back a few, maybe eatin' a couple of wings, you break the seal and then BAM!!  "I gotta get a picture in this public restroom"????... 

Congrats!  You've made 'what the fuck' seems woefully inadequate.

The Burt Reynolds

Fact:  The Burt Reynolds ONLY works if you ARE Burt Reynolds.  And if it's 1977.

Make sure you've got it:
  • If you are not in/near a body of water or involved in some other sanctioned 'I'm not wearin' a shirt activity' Don't go topless.  (Remember:  Girls dig guys in shirts.)
  • Do resist the urge to use a picture from a mother fuckin' public restroom.  The dearth of icky vibes, connotations and sense memories that seeing that bathroom brings to us, trust me-- it's not the mindset you want us in as we glean our first impressions of you.
  • Do leave the Burt Reynoldsing to Burt Reynolds.  And possibly Ryan Reynolds.  All other men just say no!!
  • My prom date kept his glasses on in practically every picture taken.  Know what almost every girl who's ever seen my prom pic has said?  And I fuckin' quote, who's that douchebag? unquote.  We don't hate the sunglasses, but we do generally love a guys eyes.  Do play to your strengths and show us those baby blues.
  • Cell phone/mirror pics.  Enough already.  Every third guy it seems is that guy.  Don't you want us to see you literally and figuratively as someone different from all of the other guys with a camera phone out there?  Don't be cookie cutter.  Do have a real snap taken and show us some of your personality.
  • Do feel free to skip the driving shot, a safety belt and steering wheel doesn't turn us on, like apparently you guys think it will.  It's probably not very safe anyway.
Until next time class...


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Thursday, June 23, 2011

~Want A Reply To Your Intro Email? 'Cause It Seems Like Ya' Don't. (GAP)

Welcome.  Settle yourselves.  Ok, we've talked a bit about photo selection and profile content.  If you were absent either of those days, scroll your ass down on the right hand side and click where it says GAP/Guy Assistance Program.  Today it's all about sending an intro email.


First and foremost, it's important that you remember this one salient detail:  Don't fuck it up.

I can not express to you how crucial not fucking it up is to the success of your emailing experience.  No.  I'm not kidding.  I know that's pressure.  Guess what?  Up your game.  I don't know any other answer that isn't bullshit.  It's Darwinism in action, the strong survive and thrive.  Guys who know how to not fuck this up are the guys getting the girls you aren't even getting replies from.  The level by which you must up your game is directly proportionate the level of girl you hope to attract.  Harsh?  Cold?  Yes.  Know what else?  True.

You'll never have to 'do work' (thanks, Big Black) for the low hangin' fruit, (Awww, look at me trying to be kind to sluts, "dancers", gold diggers, girls with substance issues, girls with daddy issues wait?  Are those all one in the same? and those with dangerously low IQ's).  You can do great with her with your JV worthy efforts.  A "heeeeeeeyyyy baby", and an offer of a buttery nipple shot will probably get the job done.

But if you're shooting for a girl who has her shit together, knows a little sumthin'-sumthin' about the world, a modicum of class, well, your "heeeeeeyyy baby-in'" ass is going to be stuffed.  No sir, you're going to have to demonstrate your skills of charm and ability to exchange pleasantries in a gentlemanly manner to even get your foot on the court.  Let alone get a chance to make a basket.  Man, you are going to have to come at an elite level for the higher quality girls. 

Here are some examples of what not to do:

 "You look like you have a great bod....I'd love to see more. Holla"
Somp:  Is this really the way to begin a conversation?....and I LOVE the addition of "Holla" at the end.
BBG:  If you wouldn't walk up and squeeze a girls knockers, instead of introducing yourself, then don't lead with naughty.  Sure, you won't get smacked in an email, but ya know what you also won't get?  A reply.
Result:  No response.
Why:  An overtly naughty approach signals that you think she just might be a slut.  Unless she is a slut this will be seen as a turnoff and an insult.  That coupled with the lack of effort put into the email will yield no reply from any self respecting chick.   No effort, no reward.  X # of emails received only strong, serious contenders advance to the next round.  Sorry, scrub.


"Hi Im (protecting name of guilty), You have amazing lips . Whats your secret?"
Somp:  Lip balm? Exfoliation?  A nice tinted gloss? ....not sure how to answer this one.
BBG:  ...And because you don't, you won't
Result:  No response.
Why:  Because really?  What can she say that isn't assy?  If the only other reply, other than assy is silence, guess what?  Shhhhhhhh.  Why is she going to spend 5 minutes sending a cordial, "best of luck" type email to be kind,  when he could only invest :06 seconds in his email?  Do the math.  1 sentence =  0 reply.  Make a cheat sheet if you have to.



"hey there, how are you today pretty lady?"
BBG:  What am I even supposed to say to that?  (harp-y music and mysteriously appearing bank o' fog signifies you are about to cross over into Fuckneverland...)  "Thanks for askin', I'm almost done with my period, I'm thinkin' of having a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch and if the quality of my day and the emails I'm receiving don't improve, I'm strongly considering a glass of wine this evening.  Oh, and I plan on giving my dog a bath.  Gee, how 'bout you?"  I mean, come the fuck on. 
Somp:  'Oh, I'm good. How are you?' This is about all I can offer in reply....and I think we all agree, this is NOT witty banter. Is this really all you've got? This is how you're trying to grab my attention? I don't expect a novel as an intro email, but try to say SOMETHING that will intrigue me and pique my curiosity about you. Otherwise, I'm left to believe you're going to be a total snooze to hang out with.
Result:  No response.
Why?  Perhaps it was offered from a good place (see!! I really don't want to be a bitch.) and was genuine, but it just comes off all smarmy, player-y and not in the least bit engaging.  You don't care about my day.  I know you don't care about my day, so what are you doing?!?  Not getting a reply is what.  If we can avoid being a bitch we're gonna.  Even if that means we run the risk of you thinking we're a bitch for not responding.  It's a bitchy-22 you've put us in.  Congratulations.


"call me 216XXXX64X0 do live in Xxxxxxxxxxx"
BBG:  (stares blankly, refusing to break own personal best for most 'fuck's' used in one sentence.)
Somp:  While I appreciate a man who isn't dragging out the process (ie: emailing for weeks but never meeting), I find it odd when guys just throw out their phone number to every girl they see online - before determining if there is even a mutual interest. Comes off as...I don't know.....either desperate or lazy....or maybe both. Besides, it doesn't appear like you're really trying to connect with someone when you make absolutely no effort at all.
Result:  No response.
Why?  Really?


 Uh, yeah, guy in back with your hand up?  No, no, you..the one sans pants. 

(wonk, wonka, wonka, wonk)

Good question. 

Yes, it is possible to pen a successful intro email!

It doesn't even have to be a big ass ordeal, behold:

"Hi XXXXXXXXXX !!!! i live in Xxxxxxxxx too! Maybe we're neighbors! I think it's important for neighbors to know each other....just sayin'.. ;)"
BBG:  Kinda made me giggle with his ease and playfulness.  Additionally, it showed he actually read my profile and that I mention the necessity for close geographical proximity.
Somp:  See - no novel necessary. Just something catchy that shows you're paying attention and possibly have some measure of a personality. We're really not asking too much.
Result:  Response
Why?  It was gregarious, respectful and yet playful, and without being vulgar or over the line showed a level of interest on his part.  It's a fine line all too many penis people have trouble deciphering.  Good enough to find out something more, and isn't that the point of the intro email?


"Hey there, We're both in Xxxxxxxxxx so you gotta love that. I'm not a soda person either - but I AM an outgoing, adventurous person.
In fact, I too went to see PRINCE at the Forum. Stevie Wonder was our suprise guest as well as Shiela E. Who did you have your night as a suprise??
Please give me a shout...you look FUN! How's your weekend going?  -Xxxxx
Somp: He built a case. He gave me a reason to reply. He cut through the clutter, if you will and set himself apart from every other "hey baby" in the inbox.
BBG: Engaging, and he highlights commonalities in both experiences and general 'likes' you both share, showing he took the :30 second to actually read your profile. He comes off as interested and interesting.
Result: Response
Why?: Because he gave a reason to invest your time in a reply. He gives a clue to his personality which allows you to get a feel for if you might jive. This email is interesting, all positive and gives an opening to begin a conversation.

Alright guys, you now have examples of emailing/introductions going right and yielding the results you're looking for (a reply) and things to avoid like the plague. One last tip for today... The dreaded closed ended statement/question. (Avoid!   Avoid!   Avoid!!)

Closed Ended: Do you like dance clubs? (answer possibilities: yes/no)
Open Ended: Which dance clubs do you like to hit? (answer possibilities: endless possibilities -You'll know whether or not she like dance clubs at all immediately, plus you'll know exactly what kinds of places she digs and how that compares to your likes. Plus you've actually started a conversation.)

Closed Ended: You are beautiful. (reply: Uh, thanks. ...But more likely none at all.)
Open Ended: Hi beautiful fellow book lover, who are you reading these days? (reply: I love XYZ and ABC. Currently I'm on a LMN kick. What about you?   ...Whaaaaat?!? A conversation is kicking off?!?)

As you can see the closed ended option is always the option giving you the least amount of info and least options of a response. Well, at least not-assy responses. Somehow many closed ended statements/questions lend themselves very well to sarcasm and mockery. Either way, your choice. You've been warned.


Lesson learned?
  • One sentence emails don't work. Don't be so fucking lazy.
  • Do include a compliment. Girls like compliments. (Don't make it naughty, unless she actually cites pricing-- then, fine, get all kinda brown chicken, brown cow up in that joint. Otherwise avoid naughty compliments. Also steer clear of cheezy. As well as too many, limit yourself to a maximum of two.)
  • Don't use closed ended questions/statements = kiss of death.
  • Do mention something. Something you liked that we said in our profile. Something you think we have in common. Something you know that might interest us. Somefuckin'thing.
  • Do use questions, don't just rely on statements. (It won't work. ...See how it's been mentioned twice?)
  • Do if you've got it use your humor. (But realize one man's humor is another persons jackassery, use judiciously.)
  • Do make it easy for a girl to reply. 


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