Hey check me out, I’m in a YouTube commercial for Earnhardt Ford in Chandler, AZ!
Hey check me out, I’m in a YouTube commercial for Earnhardt Ford in Chandler, AZ!
I love grass. Not the sticky icky variety, but the actual green, lush, soft, cool-to-the-touch, sweet-smelling, and (I’m not ashamed to say) quite tasty kind. Don’t pretend you never munched on a blade or two.
Living in the Arizona desert, good grass is hard to come by. Even the nicest looking lawn in Scottsdale is dry and seems to lack the spongy fluffiness one would expect to find in that grassy meadow from your Windows XP default wallpaper.
Not to get all nostalgic or anything, but my grandparents had one of the biggest, nicest, well cared for, lawns in all of Bayside, Queens. I’m sure it was much smaller than it is in my head, but to a 8yr old sports nut, it looked like a football field. Its only flaw was a single tree that always had a knack of preventing me from running back a touchdown. That tree sure could tackle! It did, however, play a pretty decent first base, so I guess I can’t complain too much.
Anyhow, it was this lawn that set my standards for all future landscaping even though, at the time, I didn’t even know what landscaping was. I guess I just assumed my Grandpa planted each blade of grass himself. Since he’s no longer with us, and cannot dispel that myth, I will go on believing that is exactly what he did. In fact, I think George Schneider invented grass. I’ll create a Wikipedia entry after I’m done with this.
So where was I? Oh yeah… Italian Cuisine is to Nigeria as grass is to Arizona. We just don’t “do” grass. For the most part, people here accept and understand this, so they landscape with rocks and the occasional, or not so occasional, cactus. Folks here don’t have yards, they have quarries. Maintenance wise, I’m sure it’s a dream come true, but it doesn’t really stimulate the senses. I mean what senses can rocks really stimulate.
Fine! They can stimulate our sense of touch, but I’m not gonna taste one!!!
It’s safe to say I’m not a huge fan of “Desert Landscaping“, but given our desert climate, you’re sort of limited in your options. Go figure. I have, however, learned to distinguish between good landscaping and bad landscaping, and I can appreciate the efforts that go into giving one’s home some curb appeal.
I pulled into the driveway this evening, got out of my car, and took a moment to take in the desert scenery. Even someone as anti-Arizona as I am can enjoy a sunset every now and then. As the sun continued its descent below the horizon, I allowed my body to fully absorb my natural surroundings, becoming one with Mother Earth, losing myself in the moment. What brought me back was the abrupt realization of the one sure thing I know will always remain true…
I will never grow up.
Ok there’s no sex, but two out of three isn’t bad.
Hello peoples! First, I want to thank those who have recently checked up on me to see if I’m doing ok. I am alive and well. My real estate career, however, has taken a little turn for the worse.
After 4 months of busting my butt building a strong relationship with my only real client, I finally wrote my first contract on a small apartment building. We were supposed to close on the deal this month. Unfortunately, everything unraveled and turned to shit faster than I could say, “My boss is an evil lying, cheating, unethical, money-grubbing douche.”
See, what happened was, my boss left out a few minor details about the property I was selling. For instance, the tiny fact that the seller on the contract didn’t really own the buildings he was selling yet. You might ask yourself, “How can someone sell something they don’t own?” Well they can’t! There was a pending deal between the actual seller and the person on my contract, which I was obligated to disclose to my client.
Because the pending sale (or lead deal) hadn’t closed yet, the tenant lease agreements provided by the “fake” seller weren’t really accurate. They stated that the current rents each lease was $150 more than they really were.
*Real Estate Lesson 101: When someone buys an apartment building, they’ll calculate how much income they will generate based on the current rents. Often, right before someone sells, they’ll increase the rents to make it look like a more attractive investment to a potential buyer. Unfortunately, since the “fake” seller didn’t own the building yet, he hadn’t really raised the rents. Essentially lying about the potential profitability of the investment.
Now here’s where everything really gets F-ed up. My boss was in cahoots with the “fake” seller and knew what was going on. Rather than tell us the situation and give us a chance to put together a strategy, she instructed me to lie to repeatedly lie to my client. I, of course was unaware I was lying, and eventually when all the information surfaced, and the dust settled, my client was left with the impression that I was either trying to pull a scam on her, or extremely incompetent or worse… both. Either way, my client got pissed off and dropped out of the deal, and I lost a $13,000 paycheck.
I have had zero income these past 5 months, and spent every penny of my savings trying to establish myself as an Agent, so really needed to land this deal in order to continue building momentum. Needless to say, I was pretty upset. When I confronted my boss about why my client dropped out, she nonchalantly said, “Well, she must have not been really serious about buying.”
After making 3 trips to Arizona, renting 3 cars, paying for 10 nights in a hotel, forfeiting $1300 in inspection fees, and handing over $5000 in earnest money, my client wasn’t really a serious buyer. I guess she won’t be a serious plaintiff either when she tries to sue me.
So, after giving it a bunch of thought, I’ve decided to quit my job, and I’m going to work with my Mom’s girlfriend, Carol, doing the same thing. Carol used to work with me at this office, but she quit in January in order to branch out on her own. I have no idea if I’m doing the right thing, but I guess only time will tell. I’ll officially resign on Tuesday or Wednesday. It depends on which day my balls feel their largest.
With all these upcoming changes staring me in the face, and coming to the realization that I’m dirt poor again, I haven’t been much in the mood for blogging. These next few weeks, however, will likely provide plenty of material for future blogs.
Until then, keep your head up.
The events you are about to read are 100% true. Some of the names have been changed because I can’t, for the life of me, remember the real names.
Several years ago, when I was about 26 or so, my mother decided to place an online personal ad on my behalf. The ad read, “Interfering Mother Seeks Nice Girl for Her Son.” Believe it or not, quite a number of women responded, and after a grueling screening process, my mom sent me the name and number of the one she thought would be the best for me. For the purpose of this story, let’s call her Angela.
I called Angela to introduce myself and to have a good ole laugh about how nutty my mother is. Angela seemed nice enough. It turned out she was also from Brooklyn and moved out to Arizona around the same time I did. We actually attended the same High School, but at different times. The only thing that turned me off about her was the fact that she sounded exactly like Fran Drescher. Also she was one of those New Yorkers who finds it necessary to talk about how, the Olive Garden is not real Italian Food. Blah blah blah I’m Italian, I know real Italian food because I’m from New York. Blah blah blah some more.
I decided stay open-minded and I asked her to dinner. She accepted, and we made plans to meet at Kyoto, a trendy Japanese restaurant in Scottsdale. Back in those days, Kyoto was my standard fist date place. I’ve since learned my lesson and have designated Starbucks as the new meet and greet location.
The first thing I noticed about Angela when I finally saw her was that she looked 0% Italian. She looked more Middle Eastern than anything, and when I asked her about it, she admitted that she lied. She only said she was Italian because my mother is Italian and she didn’t want to be prejudged by saying she was really Assyrian. Prejudged??? Who the hell knows what Assyrian is? I couldn’t even tell you where Assyria is on a map!
Misrepresenting herself was the least of the evening’s problems. She and I were like oil and water. The whole night, every time I made an attempt to be humorous, she’d get this uncomfortable smile on her face like she was taking a poop in front of a live studio audience and she’d say, “Oh Eric….you’re very funny.” If there’s one thing I know, if someone doesn’t laugh and just says “you’re funny”, they’re lying. And after hearing “you’re very funny” about 10 times, I was ready to excuse myself from the table and not come back.
Convinced that the date was going absolutely nowhere, I decided to strike up a conversation with one of the other couples sitting at our table. Oh yeah, we were eating at a family style teppanyaki cooking table, so there were other people sitting with us. I started asking the other couple questions about where they came from and how they met. Angela sat just sat there looking horrified that I’d do such a crazy thing like talk to strangers. Sarah, the woman from the other couple, said that she and her date met there at Kyoto and this was their first official date.
I told them Angela and I were on our first date as well, and about how my mom put the ad on the internet. Revealing our dirty little internet secret really seemed to piss Angela off even more. But Sarah’s eyes popped open and she yelled, “OMG! We really met on the Internet too! I was too embarrassed to say anything! How funny is that?!” It turned out that the guy flew in from Las Vegas just to meet her and he was planning on going home the next day.
Apparently, Sarah’s date barely spoke a lick of English, and he looked just as uncomfortable as good ole Angela sitting next to me. Sarah and I, however, were like two soybeans in an edamame pod. We didn’t stop talking to each other the entire time nor did we make any further attempt to include our dates in the conversation.
After dinner, Angela and Sarah’s date both excused themselves from the table and went to the bathroom. I don’t know what got into me, but I jumped on the opportunity to make a move on Sarah. I told her it was clear that neither of us were interested in our dates, and the two of us should go out. Before everyone got back from the bathroom we exchanged numbers and agreed to get together sometime in the near future.
On the way to her car, I gave Angela the “Sorry there was no love connection” speech. She made it a point to let me know that she didn’t really think I was funny and thought it was beyond rude to talk to other people during our date. She said some other things too, but I stopped listening. I was sooooo proud of myself for grabbing Sarah’s number that I didn’t care what Angela had to say. I admit, it was an extremely “non-Eric” type of thing to do, but I guess I was tired of going out on terrible blind dates and needed to make a bold move.
I’m sure you’re thinking to yourself right now, “That can’t possibly be The Worst Date Ever.” Guess what? You’re right! That was just the introduction to the worst date ever. I assure you, you haven’t heard anything yet. So go make yourself a cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows, come back, strap in, and hang on.
A few days after meeting Sarah, she called me to see if I wanted to go out with her. A bunch of people were going to Kyoto again to celebrate her best friend, Allison’s birthday, and she wanted me to go as her date. There was only one problem: Allison just broke up with her boyfriend but the ex boyfriend was going to be there anyway. Also on the guest list was some guy Allison hooked up with in Mexico. Finally a third guy who also liked Allison was going to be there as well. So Sarah warned me that I had to be prepared for the possibility of a little bit of drama.
Pfffft!!! Drama?!? Drama is my middle name! No sweat!
“But I have one question,” I told Sarah. “how many boyfriends are you bringing to the party?”
“Ha ha, very funny. I’m only bringing you.” She answered.
Now I don’t want to give away too much yet, but that phone conversation is what we, in the story telling business, like to call foreshadowing. You can just call it a bad omen.
So Sarah and I made plans to meet at her apartment. I was pretty excited about the whole thing, but extremely nervous as well. Although we really hit it off at the restaurant, she was also one of the hottest women I’d ever gone out with. In addition to that, she was also a few years older than I was, worked as an Registered Nurse, was studying for her Real Estate License, AND she had two kids. I’ll admit, I felt a little out of my league.
On my way to her place, she called me to let me know she was running late, but her brother, John would be at her apartment to let me in. Sure enough her brother answered the door. He appeared to be in his late 30’s or early 40’s. It was hard to tell because although he looked younger, his hair was prematurely gray. John invited me in and immediately disappeared to finish getting ready. He was also friends with Allison and was going to join us for the evening.
I wandered into the living room, and sitting on the couch, giving me the once over was Sarah’s 16 year old daughter. Yeah I did the math. Sarah had her when she was 16. Her daughter asked surprisingly, “YOU’RE going out with my mother? You look more like someone I would date. Not her!”
Luckily I didn’t have to wait long. Soon, everyone got to the apartment, and we set off for the restaurant. We intended on having more than a few drinks, so being responsible adults, we took a cab. I didn’t know it at the time but that cab would also turn out to be a bad idea.
Three quarters of the way through dinner, while things seemed to be going great between Sarah and me, tempers were flaring between Allison’s ex boyfriend and her two other suitors. Twice, fights almost broke out and the manager had to come over and warn us to settle down. Right around that time, another couple joined our party. I’m going to call them Big Titted Indian Girl and her Prick Boyfriend, or Big-TIG and P-BOY for short. They weren’t invited to the celebration, but they somehow knew Sarah and Allison.
Big-TIG supposedly posed in playboy and she had no problem showing everyone her giant implants. P-BOY was a classic muscle head, Scottsdale douche bag. It was obvious the two of them had been drinking heavily and doing drugs way before they got to restaurant because they were both making quite a scene.
The manager came over again and asked us to leave the restaurant. This somehow lead to an argument between Big-TIG and P-Boy who started yelling at Big-TIG; calling her “stupid bitch” and “cunt” like those were her names. He then grabbed her wrist and kept pushing her in the face and pulling her hair. Big-TIG broke free and ran into the bathroom crying. Sarah followed behind her to make sure she was ok. Everyone else in our party filed out of the restaurant.
Before I knew it, I was sitting by myself at the table waiting for Sarah. Finally she came out of the bathroom and escorted Big-TIG outside. Before leaving, I went to pay for my portion of the bill and to double check that we left enough for the tip. I came to find out we were extremely short on the bill and that the three guys who were fighting over Allison all walked out on the check.
I tried to explain to the manager that I had to go outside to get the people who didn’t pay, but since everyone else already left he wouldn’t let me leave the restaurant without paying. I ate there all the time, and didn’t want to get banned, so I ended up having to pay for myself, Sarah, Allison, and the three assholes who walked out. 1 meal for the price of 6. What a bargain. 😐 Technically I didn’t really have enough money to cover everyone, but Sarah’s brother over-tipped on his portion, so I kinda scooped part of that to ease the pain. Don’t tell anyone.
After narrowly escaping getting my ass kung-fu’ed by the kitchen staff, I walked outside just in time to see everyone from our group stuff themselves into a cab and drive away. Fate would have it that I spent all my money back at the restaurant, and couldn’t afford to get another cab. I didn’t have my ATM card with me either because I left my wallet and my cell phone in my car back at Sarah’s apartment. I also left the keys to my car inside the apartment, so I was pretty much screwed.
My only hope was to walk to the dance club and try to find Sarah and her friends. Now I can’t say how far I walked, but in my head, it seemed like 100 miles. When I finally got there, I was able to find John and Allison fairly quickly. The three suitors were gone, but Sarah was back in the bathroom again with Big-TIG who decided to have a suicidal breakdown. P-Boy didn’t seem to mind as I saw him roaming around the club hitting on other women.
I sat down with John and Allison, and they were nice enough to buy me a drink after I explained to them what happened back at the restaurant. A little while later, Sarah came out of the bathroom to apologize to me for how shitty the date was going so far. She assured me that she really really liked me, and wanted to spend some time with me. She said she just needed to get Big-TIG out of her hair, and promised to make it up to me. As a down payment on that promise, she planted a huge porno style kiss on me.
Did I happen to mention how hot Sarah was?
So Sarah disappeared again, and I went back to the table and set up camp with John and Allison. We all talked for a few hours, and shortly before last call, some chick walked by our table, recognized both John and Allison, and stopped to say hello.
Girl: “OMG, Allison! What are you doing here?”
Allison: “It’s my birthday!”
Girl: “OMG! Happy Birthday! Hey, John! Is Sarah here too?”
Me: “Sarah is in the bathroom.”
Girl (to me): “Who are you?”
Me: “I’m Eric. I’m Sarah’s date.”
Girl: “That’s weird.”
Me: “What’s weird?”
Girl: “Isn’t it kind of strange to be on a date with Sarah and her husband?”
Me: “What? Her who? Who’s husband?”
I turned to look over at John and Allison and they both had giant “Oh shit!” expressions on their faces.
John wasn’t her brother, he was her fucking husband!!!
I felt like such a retard because I just spent two hours shooting the shit with him, asking questions about where he and Sarah grew up. What their parents were like. How he ended up moving to Arizona. Why he was living with his sister and not on his own. And I bought all of his bullshit answers, hook, line and sinker.
Almost as if on cue, Sarah reappeared. I frantically filled her in on the most recent turn of events, and she told me she lied to me because she was scared I wouldn’t go out with her if I knew she was still married. She and John were actually separated, but they remained friends and were still living together until he found his own place. Neither one of them had any problems with the other dating other people. Obviously 😛
She begged me not to be mad at her. She’s was soooooooooooooooooooo sorry and she promised again to make it up to me.
This is the part where I remind you how hot she was: Very hot!
Technically, I didn’t ask her how many husbands she was bringing to the party, so I guess you can say she didn’t really lie to me.
Thankfully Sarah managed to rid herself of Big-TIG, but it was already closing time and everyone was ready to go home. John, Allison, Sarah and I, and two strangers that happened to be going in the same direction, all piled into a cab, and we headed back to the apartment. 5 minutes into the cab ride, Allison leaned over and puked all over my shoulder and down my back. Happy Birthday!!!
When we got back to the apartment, Sarah’s daughter was on the couch, drinking beer, and making out with her 22 yr. old boyfriend. Not a word was said. John just headed straight for the kitchen, calling out over his shoulder “Who wants margaritas??” Sarah started walking down the hall, toward the bedrooms, looked over her shoulder said to me, “Come on. Let’s go.”
Ok, let’s recap. I’d been lied to, stiffed, ditched, humiliated, and puked on. I was pretty sure, at that point, that Sarah wasn’t the girl for me, but I was determined to come away from this date with something. So when she said “Come on. Let’s go,” she didn’t have to say it twice.
I followed Sarah into the bedroom, and faster than I could close the door and count to 10, she was naked and in the bed. I was about to follow her lead when the bedroom door burst open, and in walked Sarah’s 13 year old son. Where he had been all day, I had no clue, but there he was now. Oh, and by the way, he was naked.
Sarah’s son jumped up onto the bed, got under the covers with his mother and declared, “I’m sleeping with you tonight!”
I just stood there, with mouth agape, horrified by what was happening.
Sarah: “Josh, go to your room. Mommy has company and you need to sleep in your own room tonight.”
Josh: “NO! I’m sleeping here!”
Sarah: “Fine you can stay for a little bit, but then you have to leave. Eric, you know, you don’t have to just stand there, you can get in the bed. He’ll leave in a few minutes.”
Me: “Are you crazy?!? I’m not getting into bed with a naked 13 year old boy! You have to be kidding me!!”
Sarah: “Oh, don’t worry… we always walk around the house naked. We’re very European.”
Me: “Well I’m very American, and there’s no way I’m crawling into bed with a naked boy and his naked mother.”
Sarah: “Well you’re making me nervous standing there. You can at least sit on the corner of the bed.”
So I sat, fully clothed, on the far corner of the bed facing the door. A few seconds later, Josh started farting under the covers, then yelled, “ILL!!! ERIC!!! THAT’S GROSS!!! STOP FARTING!!!”
I turned around, stared the child straight in the eye and said, “Listen, kid, you have no idea what I’ve been through tonight. Do not even start trying blame me for your farts. I’m bound to pop a blood vessel.”
Just then, the bedroom door opened up again, and this time it was John standing there with a margarita in one hand and an unlit cigarette in the other. Oh, and guess what?
HE WAS NAKED TOO!
John: “Josh! Go to your room! Your mother has a guest!”
Josh: “NO! I’m sleeping in here!”
Faster than I could even say “What the fuck!?!”, John transferred the cigarette into his margarita hand, then reached over my shoulder, and snatched Josh out of the bed. In the process, he inadvertently pressed has saggy, wrinkly, gray-haired balls right into my face. I mean he literally smashed his entire package into my face from cheek to chin!!!
It was over in seconds, but the damage was done. John and Josh were gone quicker than the blink of an eye, but I could still feel the burning imprint of his scrotum on my face.
Most men in my situation would have packed it in and called it a night. Actually most men wouldn’t have made it out of the restaurant. But not me. I’m a fucking trooper! I’m firm believer that the harder something is to achieve, the more you appreciate the accomplishment. Sitting there alone with Sarah, who was still very much naked, it seemed that my hard work was finally about to pay off.
In my mind, the only thing that could possibly make up for 40 yr. old balls in my face was sex with a hot woman. If anything, it would help cancel out the extreme gayness of the prior incident. I began to unbutton my pants when suddenly the phone rang. “Don’t answer it.” I pleaded.
She answered it. “Hello? Hey! Where are you? You’re here?!?!”
Sarah covered the receiver with her hand and whispered to me that it was Big-TIG and P-Boy and a few of their friends. They were at the front gate and wanted to come up.
I shook my head and said, “Don’t buzz them in. Please DO NOT buzz them in!”
“I swear they’ll only be here for a few minutes.”
So Sarah put her top and mini skirt back on and went to the front door to greet our new guests. I noticed she didn’t bother to put her panties back on.
Big-TIG and P-BOY were there for no more than 10 minutes before both of them were topless and making a dirty dancing sandwich using Sarah as the meat. P-Boy’s hands were roaming freely all over Sarah’s body, and before I knew it, he was ramming his fingers up under her skirt.
That was it for me. I grabbed my keys and walked out.
Half-way to my car, I heard Sarah screaming my name. I turned around to see her running after me through the parking lot with her skirt all hiked up above her privates.
“Please don’t go.”, she pleaded. “I swear all this craziness is not what my life is like. Tonight was completely a freak accident. I really want to start all over with you without all these people around, but I don’t know how to get them out of my house.”
I’m not going to admit that I fell for her sob story, but I did think there was some remote chance I could still get laid out of all this. By that time, I felt entitled.
I calmly said to her, “Do you really want those people out of your house? Tell me you do and I’ll make them leave.”
I fixed her skirt for her, I took her by the hand, I walked her back to the apartment, I turned off the music and I said, in my best tough guy voice, “Everyone… get the fuck out! The party is over! It was fun. We all had a good time, but now it’s time for you all to go home.”
P-Boy was stunned and pointed to naked John and said, “He lives here, you can’t make him leave!”
Me: “OK, if you live here, you can stay. If you don’t live here, pack up your shit and get the fuck out. The party is over!”
P-BOY: “Sarah… what’s going on? This is your place. You really want us to leave?”
Do you know what Sarah said?
She said “NO.”
I did not pass Go, I did not collect $200, I didn’t even say goodbye. I went straight to my car and drove home half expecting credits to start scrolling down my windshield as this episode of the Twilight Zone came to an end. Then I realized this was no television show. This was my life.
Sarah actually called me the next day to tell me what a nice time she had and, believe it or not, wanted to go out again. I told her to lose my number.
Today marks a milestone in my very short Blogging career! Today I surpassed 1000 Blog views (this started out as a myspace blog). I would like to take this time to thank each and every one of you who have made this possible. I can only hope what I write continues to enlighten and entertain you. To celebrate this occasion, I was going to share with you one of the best stories ever told. Unfortunately, I decided to hold off on that story for now. Do not despair, loyal reader! I promise to tell it very soon.
Today I want to vent. What else is new?
Ok, here’s the back story: My sister, Lisa and her husband John, were planning on buying a house earlier this year in Washington. She went into escrow, and the deal was expected to close right around Christmas time. Because of all the expenses and chaos that naturally comes with buying a new home, my sister had no intention of flying here to Arizona for Christmas.
Unfortunately, the deal fell through and they didn’t get the house. Bad for them, but great for me, because now she’s coming for Christmas! Yay! I’m actually supposed to pick her up from the airport on Sunday.
So, this year, my mother and I decided to do something special for Lisa and bought her one of those 60 GB iPod Videos. It was on her “wish list” but, never in a million years would she expect to get something like that. First of all, it’s pretty pricey, and my mother is the queen of cheap. Often, if you tell my mother you want something for Christmas, she’ll look it up on the Internet, then get something half the price and 1/4 the quality of the thing you asked for and insist the thing she got is better than what you asked for because “they” said it was on epinions.com. The fact that she was able to resist the urge to buy my sister an AM/FM radio and tell her it’s better than an iPod, was just huge.
Second of all, my sister is notorious for getting pretty lame presents ever since she became all domesticated. Last year I think she got a sewing machine, pot holders, and a pizza slicer. So, the iPod was going to knock her socks off!
So my mother and I spent 2 hours on the phone devising this elaborate plan to surprise my sister with this gift. I’ll spare you the details, but it involved packaging it in an old waffle maker box and running some sort of act to piss off my sister. In the end, we were excited about the plan, and very proud of ourselves.
To help set up the surprise I told my sister what we got her for Christmas. Every year, my sister finds a way to trick me into telling her what she’s getting for Christmas. I don’t know how she does it, but I always fall for it. So this year, when she “broke” me, I had her convinced that she was getting a membership to “The Book of the Month Club”. Woopieeee!!!
With that little seed planted, everything was set. My mom and I talked every day this past week about how great it was going to be to see her face when she finally opened the gift.
Well today, I got a call from my mother that started with, “Your sister is an asshole.”
My sister bought herself an iPod!
Who buys themselves a $400 gift a week before Christmas???
I’m pretty agitated, and my mother is completely crushed. She already put the one we bought up for auction on ebay.
What a bummer. 🙁
Hellooooo everybodieeeeeee!!! I’m back from California, and I’m completely exhausted. The seminar went great and it resulted in lots of future moolah. The weather was beautiful. The food was delish. The women were pretty spicy. The hotel was phenomenal. Aaaaand, I looked pretty spiffy in my new suit.
That’s all I have to say about that.
So, I did it again! I couldn’t resist. I was hornswaggled by them there marketing people on that there television set.
Persuaded by a TV advertisement, I joined eHarmony.com; taking another stab at finding love online. eHarmony offers their patented 359 point personality profile which ranks you in 29 dimensions deemed “crucial for relationship success.” THEN they match you with people who, according to their research, are scientifically compatible with you. It sounded pretty simple, and the guy in the commercial seemed very sincere, so I dropped $90 and signed up for 6 months; joining the ranks of thousands of other suckers.
To start out, I logged on and spent over an hour filling out their questionnaire. The problem with the types of questions they ask is, the people who are answering them are so socially retarded when it comes to the opposite sex, they have no clue what they want and can’t think of why anyone would want them. So, by the time I was done, I had successfully built a personality profile of a desperate loser with major insecurities and self-esteem issues. An hour in, and I was ready to put a bullet in my head.
Nevertheless, I still clung to a small shred of optimism! I figured there has to be someone out there for me. I crossed my fingers and clicked on “Get My Results”. Well, it turns out that according to their analysis, I am attracted to the female personality type, which 90 percent of all men are attracted to. Go figure :P. Unfortunately, only 4 percent of all women are attracted to my personality type. That means out of every 25 women only one would be attracted to my personality alone! Now eHarmony doesn’t seem to think that physical attraction means anything, but you and I know better. And that led me to ask myself, if only 4 out of 100 women would like my personality, how many of those 4 would find me physically attractive too? Mathematically speaking, things did not look too promising.
Even though the odds seemed stacked against me, I still pressed on. I filled out the rest of my profile, posted a few pictures, and before long, I was ready to submit my info to their matchmaking system to see what love had to offer. I clicked “send” and was taken to a page which assured me they were working hard to find my potential mate, and advised me to be patient, as these sorts of things take time and should not be rushed.
After what I think was 2 minutes of fake searching, it spit out only 3 matches. 3 out of the entire state of Arizona. 3! Granted it doesn’t tell you how many people are signed up with them, but 3?!? C’mon! I wondered how many people just throw in the towel and turn gay after going through this process.
Anyway, I said “F that!”, and I decided to cancel my membership. It took me a while to find the cancel link, and when I clicked it, it took me to to a FAQ page. I guess they want to make sure you completely understand how everything works before you decide to cancel. The one question on the FAQ page that caught my eye was “Why do I have so few matches?” The way they explain it, it’s because their system is soooooo advanced, they don’t give you just any long list of potential mates like other sites do. They supply fewer, but much more qualified and compatible matches. They even go so far as to guarantee 7 – 12 matches for the whole year! Then they remind you that it could take several years to find the right match, but you shouldn’t give up! Oh no… never give up, and don’t stop sending them money.
Since I didn’t need to pay them to help me stay single for a few more years, I proceeded with the cancellation. All I had to do now was click here… then click there to be sure… then another click to verify… then click again to approve, and voila! WHAT THE FUCK!?! In order to complete the cancellation, I had to call them on the phone!!! Of course it was already too late to call at that time, so I had to wait until the next day. The next morning, when I dialed the number, I got a message saying, “We’re sorry, our system is currently down for routine maintenance. Please call back again. Thank you!” I got the same message the next day, and the day after that. The following day, I had to go to California and didn’t try to call while I was there.
To make a long story short, I passed my free trial period, and I’m stuck with 6 months of reminders of how not compatible I am with women. So, I’d like to take this time to send out a heart felt “Go fuck yourself!” to eHarmony.com
Thank you very much, and have a good night.
Oh, if there happens to be an eHarmony.com ad below this post, don’t click on it!
Holy monsoon Batman! Lately Mother Nature has been pretty pissed off at Arizona. We had record heat in July which killed a ridiculous amount of people not to mention 28 poor little dogs. :(( Now the rains are kicking us right in the Arizona nut sack! I’m stuck at work for at least another 30 minutes until the storm dies down.
I was driving home in the rain earlier in the week and watched people drive right through these mini oceans of water, and I thought to myself, “How stupid do you have to be to get stuck in water during a storm. Can’t these people see the water is deep and they shouldn’t drive through it?”
Well no more than 10 minutes later, I turned into the entrance of my apartment and drove right into this humongous puddle. Immediately, my car gave out a few feeble putt putts and died, leaving me shipwrecked in the middle of the water. Luckily I wasn’t like some of these other poor souls who get washed away and killed by the rushing waters. I calmly screamed “FUCK!” Then I took a few seconds to pray to my Goddess, Jennifer Garner, turned the key and… shaazam! Like Jesus Christ in a 1990 Ford Probe, my car levitated above the water, and I was able to back out the way I went in.
There is a lesson to be learned here. Unfortunately I don’t know what it is.
Anyway, the storm is letting up. Gotta go!
Okay… it’s been a week since I posted my survey. Since then, over 150 people responded which is really quite amazing! I feel I have compiled enough data to start sharing some of my conclusions, so let’s get right to the results:
I said I wasn’t going to send you anything if you put your real email address. firstname.lastname@example.org is uncalled for!!!
The majority of those who answered this question have had intimate contact with over 100 people. Conclusion: You’re all a bunch of whores! So why am I not getting any?
77% of you answered YES which is very reassuring, albeit extremely disturbing. Oddly enough, out of everyone who responded to the survey, 100% of the people who have been skydiving have also had mishaps involving poop. Coincidence? I think not!
Over 90% of you are Pro Choice. Only 1 person said they were pro-abortion and that was me. I look at it this way: Odds are, the first guy to knock up a chick is usually the “wrong” guy. Sometimes the dude takes off. Sometimes he’s unfaithful and impregnating girls all over town. Sometimes, the financial and mental responsibilities of having an unplanned child at an early age causes strain on the relationship resulting in divorce. What’s left are an abundance of single moms wondering “Where have all the good men gone?” Well, they’re looking for chicks without kids. Solution? Mandatory abortion for the first pregnancy. It’ll cut down on unwanted pregnancies and put a good scare into all the parties involved. I’ll take your comments now.
Over 60% of women who answered have issued restraining orders. Guys are fucking lunatics.
Over 60% of women who answered have been issued restraining orders. Women are fucking lunatics.
What? I’m the only one? No one else could possibly be an asshole? Well F you guys!!!
I’m not sure what conclusion to draw from this questions. Almost all of you do not have worthy credit. Are you all bottom feeders, or were you just scared to answer yes, because I might try to steal your identity? It is sorta sad to see that most of us, including myself, have messed up credit. It seems that everyone gets sucked into that crappy cycle of overwhelming debt. The crazy thing is they make you think it’s your fault. Like you’re a bad person. Meanwhile, the credit card companies spend billions of dollars marketing to college students; trying to get young people locked in tight as soon as possible. I hate giving “Down with Whitey” or “F the Man” speeches, but I’m sick of these giant companies, with their astronomical advertising budgets, pushing their Big Mac’s, Cigarettes, Sodas and Credit Cards on us. While they get richer and richer, we stay fatter, unhealthy, and in debt.F the system man!!! I’ll be right back, I have to go burn my bra.
No one said “no”. It was either “yes” or “never had that luxury” which means we’re all either ugly or shallow. There’s nothing worse than someone who is ugly AND shallow. They have the face of a bulldog, but always talk smack about other people’s looks. Do me a favor… next time you see an ugly person, just look them in the eye and say, “You are very ugly.” Then just walk away. It’ll keep the ugly people humble.
The only statistic that matters here is the highest number, and that was 15. Honestly… I don’t know how I did it, but I managed to pull through.
The folks in Alabama would be proud of you all. That’s all I have to say.
A resounding NO on this one, people. I wonder if there’s any correlation with the fact that we spend too much friggin time on the Internet. Hmmmm…
Over 70% of you have been cheated on. If you answered YES to this question, YES to the last question, but NO to question 10, perhaps the reason why someone cheated on you was because you were an asshole! So go back and change your answer to question 10 already!
Everyone owns a plant. That’s sweet.
Only 15% of you have been skydiving. I don’t even know why I asked this question.
This one is interesting. 4 out of 10 people have experienced a sexual act with more than one wiener. For you ladies, you’re a bunch of dirty little birdies!!! For the men, I can draw no conclusion since the sex act in question could be either a gang bang, one on one gay sex, or a gay gang bang.
The sayings hold true. “A boys best friend is his mother” and “Daddy’s little girl.” However, when you think about it, it is a bit incestuous. If you’re male, you’re likely to resemble your dad, who happens to be your mom’s type. So it just makes sense that you would be her type too, and naturally, you would get along better. The same would go for girls and their dads. So when my mom says stuff like “I don’t know what’s wrong with these girls. If I were your age, I’d totally go for you.” maybe she really means it. OK… I think I’m gonna vomit now.
We have all made fun of retarded people. What a shocker!
Over 20% of you have been made fun of by a retarded person, and that’s just not right! Let’s go out and kick some retarded ass!
Again over 90% of you believe in Angels, but none of you believe in the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim. Now that’s strange. (Please google the sports reference. I have no faith you’ll get this since most of you don’t even know who Mr. Furley is.)
This here is a 60% YES question. I didn’t ask for specifics, but I did know someone who used to save his own semen in the freezer and collect stray pubes. He was not my friend by the way.
Everyone said no to this one. So, either we place no value on human life unless we happen to know them, OR we’re so against killing we couldn’t even hurt an animal. Don’t worry, I’m not passing judgment. I wouldn’t kill my cat to save one of you fuckers either.
I already knew what the results would be to this question, because I find a way to bring it up all the time. Over 80% of the women said they would strap on a dildo and do their men in the butt. For some reason, the thought of doing that seems to be a turn-on for a lot of women. There are definitely some power and dominance issues going on here. Unfortunately for you, only 2% of the men would actually let that happen. No tush push for us. Sorry.
Wow! That was a lot of typing. I don’t think I’ll ever do that again. I hope you all acquired some insight into the human condition. Personally I think you’re all just a bunch of weirdos!
Frankly, I don’t give a shit if you’re from New York! There, I said it!
Now I’m not directing my aggression at people who occasionally mention where they’re from as it pertains to a conversation or a story. I’m talking about people who base their entire existence on being “from New York”. As if it makes them special some how. I guarantee almost everybody knows at least one New Yorker who never lets anyone forget where they’re from.
Yeah I get it! You’re from New York! Let’s move on with life!
I mean you can’t even order a fucking pizza without every New Yorker within a five mile radius declaring there is no such thing as good pizza outside of New York. “Pizza?!? You call that pizza?!? That ain’t pizza! You ain’t neva had pizza till you had New York pizza.” Then they’ll go into some deep discussion about how the big difference is the sauce, or the cheese, or the dough, or your ass, or whatever. Honestly, no one cares! Let me enjoy my shitty Domino’s Pizza in peace.
And it’s not just pizza, it’s the same for any type of ethnic food. All of it is better in New York. I actually know a guy who said, “I love German food, but I went to Germany, and you know what? The food isn’t that good. It’s much better in New York.”
Soooo if you were planning on going to Germany, don’t bother. New York beats the entire country of Germany when it comes to German cuisine.
Sometimes, New Yorkers won’t actually come right out and say where they’re from, but instead they’ll talk extra loud and over exaggerate their New York accent in order to draw attention to themselves. Then they’ll just wait for someone to ask them, “Are you from New York?” Then, they can really pour it on: “Oh, yeah, I’m from New Yawk. I’m suh-prized you can tell! Ya know I don’ even hee’a da accent anymoor. When I go back East, dey tell me I sound like I’m from Arizona!”
Another thing that bothers me is how people sometimes use being from New York as an excuse to be an asshole. “So I told that waitress to take that food and stick it up her ass. Hey, I wasn’t trying to be rude, but I’m from New York, and I just tell it like it is.”
I hate to break it to a lot of east coast transplants, but being “from New York” and being a New Yorker are two completely different things. First of all, real New Yorkers don’t live in Arizona, or Montana or even in New Jersey. They actually LIVE in New York. Real New Yorkers somehow make it through their days without giving dissertations on pizza or discussing the authenticity of the Olive Garden’s menu. They also don’t sit around and marvel at their own accents. Oh, and believe it or not, not every New Yorker is rude. I should know… I’m from New York!
I just got back from performing at Rula Bula Irish Pub in Tempe, AZ, and it was fucking hilarious!
It was open-mic night, but for musicians… not comedians. That didn’t discourage me. My goal, actually, was to see how long I could stay on stage before getting kicked off. I hadn’t performed in over a month, and wanted to do something that would leave a lasting impression, so I dressed up as the Arab, Mohammed Hameet Nazir, and with guitar in hand, I set out for Rula Bula.
When I got there, there was already some guy on stage playing guitar in front of a crowd of about 10 diners. He looked up and saw me standing there with my guitar and acknowledged me by giving some sorta “Musician’s Solidarity Nod”. The dude played a few more songs, and when he was done he motioned to me that it was my turn to go on. As I got set up, he asked me what kind of music I played. Trying to keep a straight face, I said, in my “authentic” Arab accent, “Mostly cultural pieces… sort of new age.”
As soon as the musician packed up his gear, and made his way off stage, I grabbed the mic and said, “So, how about that guy? My God, he sucked! I never heard such horrible music in my life.” The musician turned his attention back towards the stage and I addressed him directly, “My friend, your singing sounds like two cats having sex! I’m kidding, I’m kidding… it sounds like three cats having sex!”
Well it was all down hill from there. I proceeded to tell audience that I initially thought the pub was an Arab restaurant because Rula Bula, “…in my language, means goat’s penis. Which is very tasty, by the way, but only if you cook it right. The key is to leave the foreskin on.” Of course, after embarrassingly admitting my mistake, I was quick to compliment Irish cuisine by letting them know my favorite Irish dish was Lucky Charms. “They’re magically delicious!”
The Lucky Charms comment caused the owner of the pub to come flying out of the kitchen. He raced over to the bartender, and although I couldn’t hear what he was saying, he was frantically pointing at the stage and was visibly pissed off. The bartender, of course, had no answers for the owner and just kept shrugging his shoulders and forming the words “I don’t know” with his mouth.
Unfazed, I forged on! It was time to commence with the musical segment of my act. I picked up my guitar and started strumming away at the strings. Keep in mind, I don’t know how to play a single chord on the guitar. I then began to serenade the audience with my original lyrics:
I love jihad!
I love jihad!
Yalah yah ala leh chem mach salaam amah sahib!
George Bush I spit… *PATOOIE!!!*
I love jihad!”
(My CD comes out in the fall by the way).
I think the audience liked the song, but I could tell they were still trying to figure out if I was for real or not. The owner, on the other hand, did not appreciate my musical talents. He pointed at me to get my attention, then made a throat-cutting gesture, and called out, “MOHAMMED!!! YOU HAVE ONE MORE MINUTE, AND THAT’S IT!!!!” Then he turned to no one in particular and said, “Who the hell is this guy?”
I used the first part of my last minute to sing a classic Arab favorite: “I Feel For You” by Chaka Kahn.
Finally, I closed with my rendition of “Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off!”
You say Alqueda
I say Alkida
You say Virginia
I say vagina
Let’s call the whole thing off!
“Thank you very much! I’m Mohammed Hameet Nazir. Have a good night!”
I quickly packed my guitar and made my way towards the exit. On my way out the door, I thanked the owner for the opportunity to perform for his patrons. He was friggin irate! His face was the color of purple horseshoe marshmallows. He barked at me; saying that he didn’t know how I was even allowed on stage because they stopped doing open-mic night over 2 months ago. Of course that was a lie, but it was clear that he never wanted to see my face in his restaurant again!
Mission accomplished! I’ll be back next week without the costume!
Special thanks goes out to Gregory Ford, the real musician, for being such a good sport. Also, thanks for playing Hendrix for me. And of course, a gigantic thanks goes out to the owner of Rula Bula for being such a bad sport. Without him, this story wouldn’t have been funny!