Many of you have been clamoring for more information about me
I mean it. LITTLE SMOOCHING NOISES. Read the EULA, bitch!
as well as a semi-nude, duo-toned selfie that shows off my dreamy eyes, but that you still wouldn’t be afraid to show your Great Aunt Lorna who used to do the trick with the ping-pong ball, professionally.
Well, no, actually that’s a blatant lie, no one has even remotely asked for anything like that. Or anything, to be honest.
Thanks for the “target audience”, Adwords! Like, way to steal my two bucks!
Anyhoo, here’s the dreamy-eyes pic – and please remember to make little smooching noises when you kiss the screen, per the End User Licensing Agreement – and the requisite “fun” facts about me so you can ignore the whole shebang at once.
I figure I can at least save you some time. You’re welcome!
“FUN” FACTS, SORT OF ABOUT ME :
From the many options currently available, I identify as “probably male but we’d have to check”. As we’re in saving-precious-time mode, I’ll assume.
Assuming “male” has at least the same, probably better, prediction value than, say:
- knowing someone’s astrological sign;
- a Facebook poll targeting only your fellow white supremacists, IF you remember to ask them; or
- your empirical knowledge, built upon centuries of previous observations and confirmed by you over an entire lifetime, that the sun will unfailingly rise tomorrow—always assuming it’s not the evening before the Jupiter-sized asteroid.
Come to think of it, “male” tells you a heckuva lot, even when extrapolated to I, who never leave the house; even when considered agnostically as to gay or str8. So this way, I can do my confessional bit on the generalities, without actually revealing anything about ME that’s differentiating in the specifics.
Which is a whole lotta conniving and sweat of the brow for something that no one’s asked for. Seriously.
But hey. I’m a lapsed Buddhist, which means I take the same zen-like care with everything, lest I show attachment to one thing, which is apparently a bad thing.
For example, I labour day and night over this blog like five Prousts booty-bumping crystal and with the same zen-like care I would give an actual job that supported me well enough – OK, supported me at all – that I could resume opening my bank statements, Canada Revenue demands and those mysterious letters post-marked Manitoba without hiring someone from Craigslist Adult Entertainment to open them for me, sum up the content, then tie me up and verbally abuse me so I’m too distracted to continue crying.
It’s not exactly breathlessly original. I’m sure you’ve all done the same at some point!
So, assuming “male” and moving right along, here’s what you already know about me:
I’m Male, therefore:
I buy expensive electronics and fiddle with them until they break because I’m too retarded to read the manual.
I call women “bitch” if they try to do anything that doesn’t involve
1. being emotionally available and nurturing to me 24/7, or
2. a blender.
Although I’m too retarded to read the manual, I’m still an expert in whatever it was before I broke it. Be sure to pay me total attention while I pontificate, or I’ll become angry, then sulk.
Moving right along:
I’m impressed by anything as long as it’s excessive and gross—
if I’m straight she uses basketball hoops for a bra,
if I’m gay, he transports it in a wheelbarrow.
Either way, I’ll take a selfie with my bowel movement because it formed a question mark, and will probably not wait until after the main course to show you.
I also really like Mahler.
I fall asleep right after you bang me, especially if I know we both faked it.
Show emotion and I’ll use logic to explain why you can’t actually be feeling that. Don’t show emotion and I’ll fake-diagnose you as Asperger’s (male) or “cold bitch” (see above).
I apologize for telling you to “fuck off and die loser!!!” by waiting a week, then texting you “sup dude” at three A.M.
It’s only OK for me to cheat, not you, because “I’m faithful in my heart”. You, on the other hand, are just an evil tramp.
I can, and do, write my name in the snow. But not in cursive, which would be “faggy”.
By the way, as a male, my penis is more important than Pope Francis and Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II combined then promoted to Customer Care Supervisor at Bell Canada. If I’m too long in the bathroom one morning, it’s just possible I’ve dressed it up in little coronation robes and a mitre and am halfway through the service for “Eucharist”.
In fact, come to think of it, I think my penis should be elected, by a clear, unequivocal vote of a minority of the eligible population, President of the United States.
You could do a lot worse. Ya know??!!
Come buy my wares!
Yes, I’ve opened a shop on Facebook. There’s only three products there as of today, but oh I think you might just like ’em.
This launches my brand AuntieMeme™. This is a clever portmanteau of “opposite of a meme” and “Auntie Mame”, which is both pretty fuckin’ gay and a fair bit of joke explaining, but I desperately want you to “get it”.
CONTEST UPDATE: Enter my contest, with still a week before closing, and, should you win, with all the attendant brouhaha, you’ll ADDITIONALLY receive one of the posters signed by yours truly. Now I ask you. Could there be a greater incentive. This is what former marketers such as myself call a “value add”. But you can’t enjoy a “value add” without a “contest enter.” OK?
Have a look by following this link, and please support my vast and far-reaching efforts to Give The Gift of Polite, Strained Laughter™.
Shop SlowPainful.com on Facebook.