I'm your biggest problem, and I'm not even your competition. (or why Nice just doesn't cut it)

Okay, nice guy, let's talk about one of your problems. I've been thinking about this for a while, and it's time for you and I to discuss an issue. I've been reading that girls don't seem to be responding to how nice you are. Now I'm going to assume you are just a normal nice guy (small letters) rather than a Nice Guy (capital letters) which throws into the assumption that you're not a complete douche who thinks he should get brownie points for not actually raping women in crowded places. That's right, I'm going to make the foolish assumption that you're not actually a complete asshole.

NOW! The issue at hand is best defined by the sentence, "Hey, I'm nice and helpful to girls, why can't I get the ladies?" Allow me to demonstrate why this is with an actually story from my own life.

Last week, while working at the store I work at, the 3rd best looking girl I have seen all year walked into my store. No insult to the other ladies I have met this year is intended, but unless you tick a couple of boxes then you are going to have to take 4th place or lower. I have been accused of having some specifics in my tastes, but some things are universal. She was a genuinely lovely little thing. Now, there are two things to consider A) she was so young that the phrase "literally half my age" came to mind and B) she was looking for some items that my store sells and not a guy twice her age drooling over her. I try not to be a creepy motherfucker, and once a month when the stars align, I actually succeed. This was one of those times.

I went over to talk to her and offer assistance, since that's my job and it was a pleasant task at that moment. I'm nice and pleasant to everyone, but this was a special case so even without trying I amped it up a bit. As it turned out, I could help her find some things and we got to talking a little because she wanted to know if Product A was better or should she take Product B. We discussed a few things and if I were ten years younger, and single, and a man, I would have TOTALLY* asked her out. However, I didn't actually want her beyond the lizard brain going WOWZA! I had no desire for her. She wouldn't understand my cultural references (which you'd think would stop bothering me since no one ever does), she probably wouldn't like to do the things I like to do, and I would feel mildly silly being with her since she could easily be mistaken for my daughter. However, I flirt as a background action because I can't help it. She smiled, and laughed at my stupid jokes, so she was responding in a way. Thing is, she wasn't responding with attraction, she was responding because someone very good at his two jobs (knowing the store and flirting) was being good at his job at her. Again, had I been younger, and single, and a man...
*No, probably not really

Here is where this becomes a problem for any other guy who comes along. Are you as good at flirting as I am? Do you read body language like an old school card player? Can you be as helpful and clever as I can? Do you "haz mad skillz" with a Z? Because someone who isn't even in competition with a 19 year old guy, just blew you out of the water. That's one of the main problems you will encounter so long as you continue to have nothing more to offer than "I'm nice." Hell, I'm nice, and clever, and can adjust my comments to what seems to be working best at that moment, and I can talk about subjects ranging from Indian food to did I think Alesana's last album was as good as the others. I also paint, dabble in photography, and I write novels and movie reviews. I'm also, still, a good looking guy who clearly used to break hearts by crossing the room. Genuinely wishing no disrespect, what else are you bringing to the table?

Nice doesn't cut it, nice is something she lives with. Nice is the funky baseline by which her life is judged. She gets nice every day and in a wide variety of sizes and colors. Hell, even guys who have no real interest in her are falling over themselves to be nice to her. Not because we want her, but because she's attractive and we like pretty things. Before I even found out whether she was a human with a personality, I knew I wanted to be nice to her. If she was stupid or rude, she'd still be worth looking at. As it turned out, she was a perfectly lovely creature with a brain and a sense of humanity, which improved things for the lizard brain but left the higher brain to sigh wistfully to itself.

Nice has never been enough. Nice won't even get you a seat at the table. Nice is the barest of bare minimums. Nice comes right after "has a pulse" on most people's list of requirements after all. You need to offer more.

You need, above all else, to make an effort.

We're not going to go into Male Gaze, or Objectification, or even allowing women to work. You're not ready for feminism yet. This isn't even a feminist issue, anyway. This is troubadour shit. This is romantic poets territory. I'm telling you these things because somewhere along the line we've forgotten to tell people the very basics of how dating works.

Simply put, you're not entitled to a hot girl. You're not entitled to any girl, or any guy for that matter. If you want a relationship (whatever the term relationship means for you at this moment) you're going to have to work for it and you're going to have to understand that there is stiff competition. There is completion from people like me, who aren't even actually in the running but are just keeping our hand in because we like the feel of the game.

Lemons

When Life gives you lemons, cancel your subscription. Because why is a magazine sending people lemons?

Answering Questions About Polyamory.

Dear GreyWeirdo,
I know you are a polyamory style person. I've been looking into polyamory, and I was hoping you could answer a question for me. My girlfriend and I have been dating other people for a while, and recently I've met a new girl who I'm having feelings for. I've discussed it with my girlfriend, and we both agree this other girl would make a good addition to our lives. I want to tell her how I feel, but I'm not sure what the best context is. GreyWeirdo, what's the best time to tell someone you love them in a poly relationship?
Wondering in Minneapolis.


Dear Wondering,
Same a regular relationship, when you're drunk.
Good Luck,

GW

General Etiquette: A Gentleman’s Items

While one does not wish to be weighed down with paraphernalia, there are certain items that a polite gentleman should not be without. Some of these items may be considered situational, some might be thought of as over preparation, but some are certainly essential.

- A clean handkerchief is simply a must. Make sure to supply yourself with a fresh one every day, and keep enough in your drawer to change them if one should become soiled. Materials don’t matter much, so long as they are clean and there is a supply of them.
- A small notebook, both for taking notes and for giving other people notes to take with them.
- Cell phone, a must for the modern day.
- A card case with sufficient calling cards to distribute. It is important to be able to introduce yourself and allow people to know who and what you are.
- A good pocket or wristwatch, because punctuality is a must.
- A wallet or billfold for money, identification, and condoms.
- A flask with soothing liquors.
- A folding pocketknife, should it become necessary for you to cut a bitch. Bitch here refers to any motherfuckers what get in your way, and does not denote the gender of the bitch that needs cutting.
- Gloves. Leather for pimp slapping suckas, latex for clean kills.
- A pill case, for all your “self-medicating” needs.
- A small caliber pistol, just in case you need to pop a person one behind the ear.
- A length of piano wire or the G-String from a guitar. Proper garroting is more important now than ever.

With these items, you will never be caught off guard.



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Hep Cats and Pack Behavior

Everybody wants to be a cat. Because a cat’s the only cat who knows where it’s at.

You can never really find a large group of individuals. The best you can ever find, for large groups, is a gathering of them. Take an art retreat, a weekend convention, or an occasional bust by a single British agent while innocently planning the downfall of the western world. The reasons for this are two fold. One, your true individual is more comfortable as a single entity, doing their own thing at their own pace. The desire for self determination is stronger than the desire for company, and as such they rarely (or at least, not as often) want to follow along as other people fulfill their self fulfillment programs. The second of course is once you become a large group, you are defined by whatever narrow thread connects the group and as such, no longer individuals. At that point you become “Artists” or “Entrepreneurs” or “War Criminals” or whatever thread connects you.

Now when I say individual, I of course mean it in the semi-classical sense of the Romantic Movement. The obvious images should, of course, be floating to your head already. The solitary poet, the lonely cowboy, the distant painter, the mad scientist planning to show them… show them all. These images are obvious, but they are by no means the only ones. Your individual need not be entirely alone, after all. However, they’re not regularly found at the head of large groups, as I’ll describe here. I’m pretty sure you know where I’m going with this, because most of you are clever people who have at least mastered pattern recognition.

The individual is a cat.

You could almost take this to the extreme of talking about the hep cat rather than the normal person. A hep cat is already a thing after all, but I’m keeping deeper with my cat metaphor. Also, this is so clearly part of a series, where cats are already a theme and if I suddenly make this all about hep cats at this stage then someone’s brain will throw a rod and we’ll all be in trouble by then.

Follow me for a moment, see where this leads. The world loves and individualist in theory, but very few people have the patience to actually put up with one in practice. And in a very real sense, why should they? Take Byron as an extreme example and ask why on earth anyone would tolerate his antics for more than a few weeks. Sure, there are reasons, but they’re not good ones. However, Byron was fuzzy and had big eyes and would only occasionally turn and suddenly bite you for touching his belly. The point is that the individual is hard to deal with because of their wish for individuality. There is a separate point about this metaphor becoming stretched, but we’ll ignore that for now.

Even without the antics of Byron (really? We’re gonna keep going with calling what Byron did “antics” here?) the individual has a hard time being tolerated. There is a constant pressure to fall in line, follow the norm, be part of the group. There is a lot of pack mentality in here, an awful lot of people wanting those around them to conform. Oddly though, they often want the individual near them to conform while admiring the distant individual. The pack must be maintained and the order of the pack must be preserved. So most people are dogs, while the individual is a cat, and chicken tastes of human*. Good, I’m glad you’re going with me on that.
*In actuality, mister Izzard was wrong about this. Human tastes of pig, and the cannibals who ate it called it Long Pork.

Most people are, like dogs, essentially pack animals.

Keeping pack structure is desperately important to those who are invested in it. I’m not talking about children here, who barely understand the structure and simply understand pecking orders and how to maintain them. I’m talking about adults here, the sort of adults who will try and dissuade and young person from taking a path that isn’t one of the acceptable paths. This is best seen in the parent trying to stop a child from majoring in art history and demanding they go into accounting like their parents did. It extends far outside that realm though, as anyone generally feels they can comment on someone who fails to conform to the standards set by their own pack structure. People get told a dozen times a day that they’ve got blue hair, or that they wear clothes outside the norm, or even that their body structure has variances outside their internally set mean in one way or another. I’ve heard people scream that someone is fat about as many times as I’ve heard people scream that someone has a great ass.

In simple terms, most people are dogs. They are tamed, but trapped in a pack and feeling the constant pressure from both sides of the hierarchy. As a result of this, most people long to be that solitary cat. Cats are not tame animals. They are, at best, acclimated to humans. They only cling to us in the first place because our stores of grain made for an interesting abundance of rodents. They don’t perform tricks without direct reward. Even when they do perform those tricks you’re basically working on the sympathies of the cat and asking it to take pity on you. The cat has some society when in the company of other cats, but not a rigid structure where alphas get to eat before the rest of the group followed by betas. Cats are far more interested in pleasing themselves and will eat the food right off your plate while you are eating if you don’t defend your piece of chicken.

The twin result of being trapped in a hierarchy, and seeing someone who is not trapped is envy. People long to be the lone mariner, the solitary cowboy, the… isolated… Antarctic penguin botherer? Yeah, I ran out of things. Interestingly though, as I said, cats are always solitary. They have society, like artists have communities and writers have circles and even lone mariners have that one bar they all frequent. These are the places where the hep cats gather, and perform whatever strange requirements they have for their social structure.

Most dogs really want to be cats.

The interesting thing about all of this, is how much people long to be the individual in conceptual terms. They long to get a sail boat and just sail around the world, but never actually do it. They’d like to get a Walden-esque cabin in the woods, but they like cable tv too much. They want to get a Harley and ride cross country, but the kids need braces or they’ve got that project to do, or something else comes up. There are often practical obstacles in the way, but there are also pack reasons why they can’t do these things. The neighbors would talk, the in-laws would disapprove, their friends would laugh… and so on.

They want to be like cats, but deep in their hearts they are dogs. They conform to a standard that was set long before they were even born and trying to break out of that standard takes more then just an ounce of courage. Most people are aware of the pain, the genuine isolation, the misery, the hunger and the fear that can come with breaking pack behavior. It’s not something to be taken lightly. In many cases, you can’t do it halfway because doing it for real is the only way to do it. So the longing remains.

The longing to be like these people, sometimes leads certain people to hang out in the places where the cats gather. They are not truly cats, they are not hep, but they are dogs that respect the cats (as dogs should) and group around those individual cats, hoping to catch a wif of the freedom they enjoy. They are so known for their grouping behavior, that one might call them groupies. Yes, groupies, let’s go with that. Someone call Webster’s, I’ve got a new word for them.

Large group leaders, however, are dogs and not cats.

When you’ve got a leader of men, he’s rarely an individual in the romantic sense. Your cats are far too self indulged, too self directed, not interested if someone else lives or dies. Most the big leaders in the world are like alpha dogs. The may seem like romantic individuals, but often that’s simply because there is no one above them in the hierarchy to direct them. They are forced to make some decisions on their own. However, they do much to keep the pack structure. They keep those who agree with them at the top of the heap, they keep down those who deviate, and they mark their territory by pissing on things. Seriously, if you don’t have a big estate to keep them on, CEOs are terrible pets. I don’t know how those people who keep them in small apartments can live with themselves knowing they’ve got them cooped up all day.

There are some perks to being on top though, and one of those perks is not worrying about what the people above think. There is no one else to tell you that you can or can’t do this or that, but much of that pressure is replaced by a doubling of pressure from below. There is the twin problems of those who want to be top dog nipping at your heels, and then there is the second subtler group which is far harder to deal with. That second group is the people who don’t want to be on top, but want you to be a good leader. Everything top dog does is going to engender disappointment in someone from that second group, no matter what. Sometimes it will even be anger and hostility before you even begin. See Also – Barrack Obama. In those cases, it can be very easy to just simply ignore the complaints of anyone criticizing them and behave more or less like the sort of sociopath most people think cats are. This might include invading a nation no one wants to invade or telling the enemy to bring it on. See Also – George W. Bush.

These are not the behavior of a cat though, as a cat has no interest in leading anyone anywhere. Besides to their food bowl in or to demand to know why it’s empty. And cats don’t actually act with sociopathic disregard, they just have limited a capacity for solving people’s problems and they know it. So they behave in a manner that best suits their abilities and if that sometimes clashes with the needs of others they’re sort of sorry about it, but there’s only so much they can do. Yes, they could try and be a little less solipsistic, but that’s really more effort than they can manage right now.

The cat does care, but has limited ability to help

And they’re way too cool to try helping if they knew they’d fail.

The Geek World is Not My World

I’ve often said this to people, but probably not enough. I am not actually a geek. Some people think I might be, because I know a lot of stuff. Useless, pointless, meaningless stuff, but more stuff than almost anyone else they know. Of course, every once in a while, they’ll need to actually know something and I’ll still have the answer to that. However, you just need to meet me for a few minutes on a good day to know I’m not a geek.
On a bad day, I’m so withdrawn that I might be mistaken for one, or I could be a mountain dwelling goblin unused to all the fresh air and sun light.


Now I know what you’re going to say. “Weirdo, you’ve got geeky interests. You’ve got lots of geeky friends. You only sleep with geeks as far as I know. How can you not be a geek?” Well, I only sleep with bisexuals or people with strong bi-curiosity as well. Does that make me bi? I used to hang out with a lot of black people, does that make me black? Most my friends are women, does that make me a woman? The thing is, there is something I’ve often noticed about the geek world, or rather geeks as people. It’s one of the things that keeps me out of their world.

Geeks aren’t very smart, or at least not smart in the right ways.

People who are part of the geek world cling to their intelligence like a life ring in a storm. They have a nasty tendency to act like they’re the only smart people in the world, and are unable to understand why the rest of the world regularly dumps on them. Of course, the rest of the world knows why they dump on geeks, and it’s got nothing to do with the glasses or liking Star Trek.

Lots of really cool people wear glasses these days. Doctor Who is pretty close to a mainstream interest and Star Trek has been mainstream for decades. Everyone knows Star Wars, and lots of people like Wil Wheaton, not just geeks. Wil might be seen as a cool geek among geeks, but he sort of left geekery back in the dust sometime ago. He became a cool person, who has geeky interests. Here is the thing, Wil Wheaton is smart in two ways. He’s smart in Cool Person ways and he’s smart in Geek Ways. He’s good with rules that can be written down and rules that cannot be written down.

Social Rules can never be written down because the way you understand them is by smell and feel. People who understand the rules understand there is no way to write them down because the information can’t really be written down. There are too many fiddly bits, too many complications, too many factors that adjust other factors and too many factors that adjust because the other factors have adjusted to the adjustments made by other factors that are always adjusting because why the hell not? You have to feel your way along, you have to read tiny subtle signals and you have to adjust constantly.

What I've mainly noticed about geeks, is that they're not very good at Social Rules because those can't be written down.

Computers aren’t like this. The rules of computers can be written down, and easily understood. The thing is, computers are far less forgiving than social situations. If you screw up with a computer, you kind of have to stop and start again from the beginning. Socially, you rarely really have to do this. You aren’t regularly cast from and entire circle of friends, having to start with completely new people just because you failed to use a slash when you were supposed to use a backslash. You’re not required to find that one damn slash and turn it into a backslash before anything else can move forward.

This is one of the reasons people who are good at Social Rules freak out on computers. They don’t understand why we can’t just forget that one error and move on. If it were a social situation, they’d take a little shit, and then we’d all move on. In the Geek World however, a mistake is a big thing that must be corrected. It must be documented, it must be categorized, it must be fixed before we can move on. This has crippled more than one geek before they even start. They see that they’ve made an error in a social situation and try to apply computer rules to it. They think they can’t fix it, because everyone else has ignored it, and think they’re being shunned. This is a problem because in reality, they fix it by ignoring it.

Geeks make a Social Error and flip out because they think it’s like a Computer Error and worry they won’t be allowed to fix it.

Of course, one problem is that Social Rules are a constantly shifting ice flow of contradictions and hierarchy. People who play that game badly think it’s about pushing those around you down lower so they can be higher. People who play the game well know it’s about raising people so that you can stand on their shoulders and you’ll all go up together. People who play the game abysmally, think it’s about making yourself like the guy you want to raise you up. And then you have the fear that one person will get raised and you’ll be ignored. That was, greatly speaking, the point of my last post.

The game has no formal rules though, because if people could read the specific rules, with each little detail there for them to see, they would start acting differently. Once they were conscious of their behavior, they would strive to change it. Try this as an experiment sometime, make mention of someone’s little verbal tick. Mention that they say “Exactly” a whole hell of a lot. Then watch as they strive to cay “Certainly” or “That’s Right” instead. When a normal person realizes their behavior can be tracked and predicted, they will start doing something else. This is another part of the rules, but one that can be written down because it’s large enough not to be specific. You can have the big unspecific rules written down because they don’t help much anyway.

No part of the Social Rules may be written down, or the rules cease to work. Including this one.

This is why I can’t really be a geek, or part of the Geek World. I can’t be part of the Normal World either though, in case you’re wondering. I understand both sets of rules and play each world with a combination of rules from both sides. I feel my way along in computers and science, and I use the strict written rules as a wedge to get into people’s heads. I understand enough about both worlds to float around and be a strange, quixotic character for either group, mainly by playing opposite strengths around each group while demonstrating an understanding of the rules of the current group.

Mind you I also have paranoia, A.D.D. and social anxiety disorder to work with here. So it’s very possible that my mind is cracked in just the right way that I can both exist and not exist in whatever world. I understand the rules quickly, but have a totally inability to really play by any of those rules. I don’t belong, but I can be here as an observer. I am accepted everywhere I go, but not really a member of any group.

I am, socially speaking, Schrödinger's Cat.

Which proves that maybe it wasn’t such a dumb idea and that things really can exist in two forms at once. But probably not, I suspect Schrödinger was right and the cat would either be alive or dead.

I can smell fear, and it smells like Drakkar Noir

Once upon a time, I knew some rich people. Not 1% rich, but 5% maybe 10% rich. Trophy wife and private school rich. Yacht and second house bigger than most people’s first house rich. So rich, but not mega rich. Rich enough that they’ve become terrified about their relative postions.

I was 15/16 and a friend of a friend introduced me to a friend and I was informally adopted for a couple of weeks during a couple of summers when someone was home from school. The details are unimportant and hazy, and I’m not interested in talking about that right now anyway.

The story I want to tell is when I was chosen as an escort to some… thing or other. Someone was getting an award and there was going to be a dinner afterward and I wasn’t told I would be in a room full of suits until we were on our way or I might have not worn purple sweatpants. However, I did, and I’m not ashamed of that fact because I’m not ashamed of much at all.

Shame doesn’t get you very far in life kids.

So I’m sat at a table, while the girl who in retrospect had a crush on me the size of Mt. Rushmore and was aching for me to make a move, went off with her mother to talk about something. I’m not entirely sure what they were talking about, but she wasn’t getting in trouble for bringing me because I think her mother was hoping to pick up a bit on the side when she was done with me. Also, she would have mentioned if her mother had been annoyed because she was reveling in annoying her mother that year. I do believe, I was part of that, but that’s not important right now.

As a result of her being called off, I was sat at a table with seven other guys. Five of them were employed by the company that was giving someone an award, one was their boss and the last one was a college kid who was interning with the company, but because of college he didn’t have the full suit but only a shirt and tie. The boss was one of those silvering haired jackasses that likes to be an executive, and likes to tell people he’s an executive and has been an executive so long he has truly forgotten people like me exist.

So we’re sitting there, and it’s a no-booze do because of all the college kids and people like me. So the executive orders a Slice with “lots of ice” requesting the waitress to “fill the glass” and I can see a couple of the guys sort of squirm. They hate Slice, but they’re going to drink it because Bossman drinks it. I’m not joking, as she goes around the table it’s “Slice, lots of ice.” “Slice, lots of ice.” “Same for me.” and my heart is filled with contempt for these people. I can tell damn well that one wants a Pepsi, that one wants some root beer and that one wants a needle filled with heroin and a line of cocaine to chase it with.

It’s about this time that I start to notice that unlike most places I’ve been, the colognes of the men aren’t mingling into a strange mixed scent. It’s only Drakkar Noir at table five, no other scents prevail, perhaps mine. But my scent was a faint hint of shampoo and not much else because I hadn’t even shaved. It’s about this time that I realize the thing that separates me from everyone else.

I’m the only person at this table who isn’t terrified.

Everyone else, even the bossman, is afraid. They’re afraid of not being on the right track. Sure, they all drive Fords, but are they driving the right Ford? Does a winner drive an Explorer? Surely, only a looser drives and Escort. What about a Mustang, or a Thunderbird? Can a winner really be seen driving those? Remember this is the early 90s, when neither car had any balls to speak of. Is this the right shirt? Should I have an oxford collar? What if only a loose uses a Windsor knot? High School is merciful, compared to the management track. There is as much information to understand as there is in the geekworld, it’s just the rules aren’t written down and you have to be smart in a different way. More about that in my next post.

And then there was me…

I don’t care how these people view me, I don’t care if they like me or not, I’m not thinking about anything they can do to me or for me. They can’t do anything to or for me. Even if they could, I don’t much care. I’m not worried about it, I know what I need and I know what they need and I get things done. I am, in a few words, the man without fear. I have never been concerned with the stupid little things that need to be done, should be done, ought to be done. I have no respect for social levels, or how much someone makes, or if I’ve impressed so and so. Ask Syd how easy that makes me to live with sometime. Weddings are a chore because “fuck wearing a tie, I don’t give a shit about those people” and so on. The thing is, the lack of fear mixed with the not giving a good god damn, makes other people want to sit next to me.

A lack of fear might be a sign of psychosis, but it is also perceived as a sign of being big dog on top.

When the waitress came to me, I decided to buck trends and stick to my guns and stay the course and not actually think about it and just order like I always do. “Coke no ice.” Oh how easily the words tumbled from my lips. Nothing major, not for me, but conversation at the table stopped. Someone put on a record, just so they could do that sound of yanking the needle and making a record scratch sound.

“Really?” one of the scared dogs men at the table asked. I looked at him for about two seconds longer than I needed to before smiling and saying “Yeah, I don’t like my pop watered down.” He looked at me, and I looked at him and he broke eye contact first and nodded, which caused the Bossman to laugh. He actually threw his head back and laughed. One single solid “HA!” and that was it. Now, I’m not sure my dears, my darlings, what I said that was so funny. All I can figure is that I’d stared down a guy who had perceived himself as a sergeant at arms and given him an answer that couldn’t be balked in a polite setting. I’d worked out a way around him and no one could do anything about it. His only real reaction was one of fear and bluster, and I have no fear to react with so he broke first.

As a result of this, the bossman started talking to me. Instead of talking about my plans, what school I was going to, where I would work, and what road I would eventually take to get from here to there, I spoke about what interested me. I told him about a documentary I’d recently seen about the evolution of mankind and how we pertained to apes. By refusing to talk about what he wanted to know about, and only talking about what I wanted to talk about, I managed two things. One, avoiding boredom. Two, and this would have been important if I’d had any use for it, which I didn’t, I established for the table which of us was the bigger dog. I was on top of the conversation, I was leading the bossman around the room with my fresh knowledge about human behavior being like that of chimps, and I was holding the table.

You could see it in their eyes, I was clearly a bigger, more important dog than their boss. Their boss was the biggest, most important dog they knew, and I was dominating him. I could see a couple of guys, particularly the one who wanted a root beer, thinking that maybe turning their loyalties toward the kid in the flannel shirt was the way to go. So much so that when the waitress came back to freshen drinks, the root beer kid did the bravest thing he’d ever done in his life. He ordered another Slice, but this time without ice! I wanted to berate him, I wanted to bang the table and demand he order the root beer he wanted, but I couldn’t. That would have been pack behavior, that would have been showing concern for another member of the group, and I don’t have pack behavior. I’m not a group member, not of any group, but I am pretty and fuzzy and will let the right people pet me while biting everyone else.

I’m not a dog, I’m a cat.

That’s what they didn’t understand, that’s what almost no one ever understands. I’m not looking to be the top dog in the hierarchy, I’m looking to be the most honest cat who just doesn’t give a shit and will tree a bear if provoked. My wants and needs are so far different from everyone else’s that while they might try and act like they get what I’m saying when I say this, their actions prove that they haven’t the first notion what I mean.

I can’t honestly suggest this to you as a career path, because it doesn’t work for al people. You have to be smart enough, strong enough, interesting enough, and pretty enough all at once to pull it all off together. Also, you have to understand the difference between tough and mean, between clever and cruel, and most of all between honesty and douche baggery. Hang on a second, that needs to be a bigger point, it’s far more important.

You have to understand the difference between tough and mean, between clever and cruel, and most of all between honesty and douche baggery.

Also, don’t use Drakkar Noir, because it smells like fear.

Etiquette: Roaring Rampage of Revenge

When one is intent on murdering those who wronged one, one must keep several things in mind. For starters, if one is not an unstoppable badass, training must begin in the deadly arts. Until one is an undeniable ass kicker, one cannot begin a quest of vengeance. Go to China, Japan, or if on a budget, the Bronx. Find a little old man, who is a master of a deadly art and get him to teach you.

Once training in the deadly arts is completed (research shows this normally takes between three weeks and two months) one must then obtain weapons. The proper weapon is one that would prove impractical under any other circumstances. A sword, an axe, machete, or a carefully planned out multi-million dollar scheme of pretending to be an important dignitary in order to lure your unsuspecting wrong doers into your clutches so you can pick them off one by one.

When going on a rampage of revenge, always make sure only to kill those who actually wronged you and any minions attempting to defend them. Never injury a family member, child, or innocent employee so long as they stay out of your way. In many cases, the people you’re getting revenge on have other people who are mad at them as well. Remember, the people closest to them might be the ones most apt to sell them out.




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New Cocktails: Purple Thing (A drink for nice people)

I can’t say this cocktail was invented in any one place. It evolved over years, adding and subtracting elements. There was a time when the drink took four hours to prepare, and then you needed to find a naked 19 year old French virgin to serve it. Eventually though, as the supply of virgins began to run out, I subtracted ingredients until I got the drink down to these four. This drink should be served cold, keep your gin and rum in the freezer.

2 measures Gin
2 measures White rum
Top up Black Currant juice
4 Blackberries


Smash blackberries in a highball glass with a muddler. Pour gin and rum into the glass. Fill glass with ice. Slowly fill with black currant juice. If you like, you can still have a naked 19 year old serve the drink, but I’ve learned that virtue has no bearing on the taste. The server should present the drink on their knees, holding a silver tray in both hands. If you are so inclined, a collar may be worn, but not everyone does their drinking ‘in the community’ as it were. Since the drink was finally perfected in France, I still think a French nude is the best for this sort of thing, and a blond if you can find one at short notice.

Etiquette Regarding the Removal of a Co-Worker

No matter what you’re working conditions, at some point it will become necessary to remove a co-worker from the coffee pool and most likely deposit them in a bog of some variety. Method of elimination greatly depends on your individual work environment, but needless to say an actual knife in the back is no longer permissible. Knives tend to cause a lot of blood, which only causes the poor, underpaid cleaning staff to have to work harder. One must remember that the polite individual considers those with a lower social standing as well as those of equal or greater standing. While it may be true that no man is a hero to his valet, one might be a hero to the cleaning woman and her services can become invaluable when disposal of a body is needed.

In most office situations, a bludgeon is inadvisable as one needs room to swing, many hits may be needed, and heads do split open and cause the goo inside to splatter if one gets carried away. The grunts and repeated thunks of the object hitting the skull will also disturb your fellow workers. If one is considering removing a co-worker, that person has probably caused enough grief for the rest of the office and at least their departed should be quiet.

In these quiet situations, a length of phone wire with ballpoint pens at each end for leverage makes a serviceable device to garrote your troublesome desk pilot. Simply throw the wire over the head, wrap it around once and squeeze until life is extinguished. The eyes will bulge, the tongue will protrude from the mouth and swell, but life may remain. Dedication is needed for such a job as this and one must keep continual pressure even after the victim has passed out. Once struggling has ceased, tying a knot into the wire to keep it tight around the throat is often advisable to make certain that all life is squeezed out. If one needs to ensure that no struggling will take place what-so-ever, a single blow delivered to the back of the head with something like a paper weight will often render the donut thief unconscious long enough to wrap the wire around their neck and tie it tight.

When the troublesome ex-employee is dealt with, one may need to remove the body quickly. This is where disturbing your co-workers is acceptable, as you will need their help to remove the former seat warmer. It is considered bad form to abuse the corpse unduly, but leaving it in the dumpster is acceptable as practicality must sometimes rule the day.



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Lovely Things I Own – The Japanese Prints

While I own many ugly, but interesting, objects I also own several objects that are just beautiful to look at. While I've been compiling lists, I've discovered something interesting. Most the really ugly things, I bought myself or my father got for me. Almost all the truly beautiful things, other people gave to me. Or gave to Syd and I, whatever.

Today we'll look at a nice plair of Japanese Woodblock Prints.

Ugly Things I Own – The Hands

Those of you, who have been to my home, will remember that I have excellent tastes. I am a particularly good decorator, even if I tend to think minimalism is something that happens to other people. I have many lovely and interesting things scattered about my home, because I have a spectacular sense of design, color and arrangement. Everyone compliments Syd on the way she’s decorated the house, and then get sort of sheepish when she tells them that most the selection and placement was done by me.

NOW!

Here’s the thing. I don’t just have lovely things. I have a spectacular sense of style, it’s true, but I also have a perverse need to offend that style on occasion.

I also have some wonderfully hideous things. Things that no woman I’ve ever been with has been able to say that she really approves of. We’re going to investigate some of those items, beginning with these fucking things…

These are the hands.

Interesting Facts: Honey Bees

In 1922, Scientists at Cornell University conclusively proved that Honey Bees can’t fly without a Class C Pilot’s license.

Later that same year, at the New Brunswick College for advanced Research it was discovered that honey bees don’t actually make honey but gather it through daring nighttime raids of the nests of the Canadian Honey Wasp who manufacture it from the pollen they steal from Chinese Limpet Ants.



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New Cocktails: Red Fizz

A fizzy red drink, for the sort of person who wants their red drink to be fizzy!

I believe I invented this drink on a long weekend in Las Vegas with a man driving a convertible he called “The Red Shark” along with his drugged out companion. I say I believe that’s when I invented it. Actually, I invented it in a lab, while be subjected to mind controlling substances while a secret government agency was trying to indoctrinate me into their MKUltra like program. The result was a failure of course, because the mice and I formed a cabal of our own and over threw the place. I never found out what eventually became of those mice, I hope they’re okay.

2 Measures Raspberry Brandy
1 Measure Spiced Rum
3 measures Cherry Juice
Top up Tonic Water

Pour all, save the tonic water, into a into a tall glass. Stir with a bar spoon ad ice and pour in tonic water.

Etiquette: Stealing From a Party

Every spy, every gentleman burglar, every covert operative will, at some time during their career, have to steal something from the home of a wealthy person. Be it microfilm, a diamond necklace, or possibly the secret formula that all of this trouble has been about. The best time to steal such an item is of course, during a large high profile party. This seems counterintuitive, but it makes perfect sense. A large gathering gives both the opportunity to move freely about the house with the other guest who will be milling about, but also gives one the perfect chance to remain courteous to one’s victim without exposing oneself to unnecessary risk of being caught.

When one enters a party, one must always greet one’s host, even if only for a moment. Congratulate them on throwing a successful party and having such a beautiful home. Remember to compliment their family, current efforts, or any other items of note. The victim must always suppose you’ve been invited and that you are a trusted friend. Then slip away to perform the burglary. Under no circumstances should one reveal that they are going to perform the theft, that’s arrogance and will tip off the plucky and witty security officer that has been loaned to the person for the purposes of the party.

Remember that said security personnel has likely been assigned specifically to stop you.
Always perform ample set up work, making sure the memorize the lay out of the building, any and all security measures and of course check the guest list to see if anyone who might inadvertently recognize you will be in attendance. Always bring your own tools, and remember to clean up the crime scene after yourself, putting everything back in its proper place (saving the object marked out for removal) to prevent premature discovery.

One should leave a memento in the place of the object taken, in deed sometimes a false version of the object is a must. However, a note or token to let people know who exactly has robbed them is often considered polite. One does not wish for people of wealthy and standing to think they were robbed by an ordinary criminal. One must be polite and charming, since it may just be that charm that helps you get away when caught.




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Five Things (Rules for Sex Edition)

These rules are written from a male point of view. That's because they are MY rules and I wrote them.

Rule 1: Don't bang drunk chicks. Reason 1) How can you really claim consent? Reason 2) Was it her attracted to you, or was it old Jim Beam showing his bi side again?

Rule 2: Don’t stick your dick in the crazy. Reason 1) Because a psycho will go psycho on you. Reason 2) YOU NEED ANOTHER REASON?

Rule 3: Protection! Use it, carry it, live by it. Protection is your friend. Reason 1) STDs suck! 2) Unwanted pregnancies also suck.

Rule 4: It's not a race, the person who crosses the finish line first doesn't actually win. Reason 1) Your partner might also like to achieve orgasm. Reason 2) A reputation for being a minute man is harder to shake and more damaging to your ability to perform than an untreated case of the clap.

Rule 5: A gentleman never discusses. A scoundrel will tell all at any moment. A gentleman scoundrel will hint and explain bits if asked, but always leave an air of mystery.

Etiquette: Finding a corpse in your bed

When one awakes, or returns home, to find the shell of a former person in their bed, one should never panic. First, make sure the person in front of you is actually dead. If they aren’t, you need to move to a different section of the book. Depending on your feelings toward them, one may either save their life or finish the job with a table lamp. It is for reasons like this that we always suggest one keep a heavy, metal bedside lamp.

A corpse in one’s own bed is never an ideal situation. If one must have a dead body kept around, which we don’t suggest you do, one should keep them in places that aren’t intimate to one. Of course the first thing to do upon finding (or making) a corpse in one’s bed is to ask oneself some questions.

- Do I know the deceased?
- How long has this been here?
- How did they die?
- How did it get here?
- Why my bed?
- Did I kill them?
- Is this something I did during one of those horrid black out periods?
- Should I leave the country and change my name or is this no big thing?

When one has answered these questions, at least given oneself a cursory answer, the proper disposal becomes and issue.

If one is sure that the body has been placed by accident or by enemies, simply call the proper authorities or a trusted removal service and let them deal with it. That is what they’re there for after all. Only a lunatic would keep a dead body in their bed and if one has a clean slate legally, then one will be all right. There may be some unpleasantness to deal with, but one can sort those rat-bastards out later.

If you believe you may be responsible for the current state of the corpse, then measures will have to be taken. If one committed the killing at the behest of voices in one’s head, now would be a good time to take their advice for disposal. The voices are usually right in these matters and it would be a disaster to stop listening now.



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Interesting Facts: Zebras

The zebra is actually a kind of cat that went vegan in the 15th century and traded in its claws for hooves during the War of the Roses. They kept their distinct stripy pattern however, because it looked cool and allowed them to lord their fashion sense over other animals on the plains.

Zebras are well known in the field of research as being amazingly good at First Person Shooter video games, but rubbish at JRPGs. They’ve been used extensively to test the latest games in the FPS market and one recently won the Tour De Shooter contest over 300 humans and an orangutan in a zebra costume.

New Cocktails: Good Fairy

A good fairy, rather than just a green one.

I invented this cocktail while staying in England with a pair of Parisian girls. It would be inaccurate to say I was “with” them exactly, but it wouldn’t be correct to say that nothing went on between the three of us. We were there for reasons beyond simply enjoying ourselves though, you might have read about the diamonds going missing. The largest Diamond Heist in English history tends to get noticed. I was annoyed, to say the least, because I don’t like my exploits to make the papers and that one did. However, as I was never officially implicated, I can discuss the matter now.

None of that is important, what is important was that I invented this little drink as something to pass the time between waiting in that farmhouse for The Greek to arrive and actually going into action. It’s a strong little drink, but then, they were strong girls.

2 measures Absinthe
2 measures Blue Curaçao
1 measure White rum
1 measure Orange juice

Put all in a cocktail mixing glass with ice. Stir with a novelty swizzle stick. strain into a champagne glass and serve. Be careful though, you may find yourself on the run from Interpol by the end of the night.

Interesting Facts: Belgium

Despite what you may have been told, Belgium is not actually a country. It is a loose confederation of City States who don't actually like each other, but are even more dedicated to the idea that they don't want to be considered French. Mapmakers simply called the place "Belgium" after the waffle, which is actually known as a Belgiumed waffle since the deeper divots in such a products are called belgiums.




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Old Cocktails: Gimlet

A Gimlet is a very simple cocktail, but it still demands to be respected. There are some, like Terry Lennox, who say it should be nothing more than half gin and half Rose’s Lime Juice. Others describe it as gin, lime and soda. Some even suggest fresh lime juice and simple syrup. However you choose to do it, the gin and lime is the constant. This is the recipe I was taught while I was in India, doing unspecified things for a client that won’t be named here.

The bar wasn’t one of those big ones you hear about, not a Raffles by any respect. It was a dusty little bar, with a dusty little man, who I eventually got to tell me how to make his famous gimlet. How I got him to give me the recipe is between the two of us and his gambling debt.

Two Measures Bombay Sapphire Gin (As cold as a banker’s heart)
One Measure Rose's Lime Juice (Chilled, but not to any metaphorical extreme)

Pour into a shaker with ice and give a good hardy shake. Strain into a classic old fashioned glass and garnish with a lime slice. Enjoy with your favorite portrait of the fourth President of the United States, James Madison.

Tales I Tell: A month in Bangkok

I know they don’t call it Bangkok in Thailand, but it’s what we called it when we were there. That was an interesting month to say the least. That was when I was traveling with those fellows I met in Greece. They weren’t Greek themselves, that was just where we met. I believe that they were an Israeli-Sino alliance group, although I must point out that I was very drunk at the time. I can’t honestly say I remember what we were doing there, or what my role in the group was supposed to be, again… drunk.

What I mostly remember are the girls from the group, because I almost had feelings for one of them. Her name was Biyu Goldenstien, and she was very likely a Mossad agent with a mixed heritage. Most of the group was made up of Chinese Jews, what with them being an Israeli-Sino alliance group. She was beautiful, and had very nice legs which could crack a man’s neck with a flick of her hips. The other girls were also beautiful, but there was something special between Biyu and myself.

There was something, and it relates to something that happened in Bangkok that year, some sort of crime, a theft or something? That’s the problem with Varinthip, which is a sort of Thai whiskey. I leaves me able to operate a bank vault (apparently) and able to fight off fifteen guards (allegedly) but leaves me more or less unable to remember actually doing it.

Sadly of course, it all came to an end. The details are fuzzy, because of drunkenness, but I do remember being told that they needed to find a goat for some reason, and then someone shot me. I woke up in an Israeli detention center, being screamed at in Hebrew, which was pointless because I didn’t understand it at the time. I tried explaining to them that I was unlearned, but that only brought misery as they soon brought in someone who could speak English to shout at me.

I did get out, because I always do, but that’s a story for another day.

Etiquette: Disposing of an Unwanted Gift

During the holiday season, one will receive many an unwanted gift. No matter what the gift is, who gave it, or why it’s unwanted, there are several steps to removing it from your life. Assuming a gift receipt has not been furnished, or that is not applicable, one should tread carefully. Many things can be returned to stores with out receipts shortly after the holidays, depending on the item and store. If the stores cannot take the item back, simply sell it on the internet or trade it on the street for drugs.

If the unwanted gift is a handmade object however, destruction is your only option. One simply cannot risk the maker seeing their handiwork being sold on ebay, or in the hands of a crack dealer. Fire is usually the best method, although with metal or ceramics you may have to resort to hammers or even throwing it off of a bridge over a deep river.

If worst comes to worst, you may even have to kill the gift giver. This solution is extreme, but is the only answer if they continually pester you about that lovely puke colored sweater they gave you last St. Swiven’s Day. In these situations, it’s often useful to keep an unwanted gift around. An ugly sweater can often work as a makeshift garrote and a “thing that you don’t know what it is, but it’s got a hook for holding it too the wall, except it’s too heavy and broke the hook and besides it’s ugly as hell, whatever it is” can make a perfect bludgeon.



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Interesting Facts: James Watt

James Watt didn’t actually invent the steam engine, what he actually invented was electricity. He lent his name to the measuring of his invention, and later his son used his invention to make a brand of scotch, which he lent his name too. He then used the scotch to power the steam engine which he and his father we busy claiming credit for. Jameson Scotch is currently the only scotch still used to power steam engines.

James Watt was later sued by Steve Steamengine for copyright infringement. The two fought a duel at down in New South Wales where Watt was hiding out from Michael Electricity, who also had a claim to his famous “bottled lightning” which he claimed Watt had stolen.



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