I recently read this post from Paul Thomas Bell. Now, I follow him and appreciate his blog so this is all in good fun, but I just couldn’t miss an opportunity to write these posts.
This is number two in the three-part response series. If you missed it, read part one — I Guess I’m Not a Woman.
In What Women Want (In My Experience), Paul lists the things he believes women want. They’re normal stereotypical things, like babies and money. So I’m here to spin things around and tell y’all What Stereotypical Men Want (In My Experience).
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Unprotected Sex With No Consequence. Of course, who doesn’t? It feels better. But sometimes the idea of having a little me running around or dying when I’m 35 from a horrible disease or getting sores on my lady bits is enough to make me stop and say fuck off if there’s no protection available. Not men, though! Instead they’ll vow they’re the best at the pull-out method. News flash: you’re not. So Dude, don’t always rely on the woman to have protection or be on birth control. Prepare yourselves, or you will have one of those terrifying things listed above.
You know those annoying phone surveys and those annoying Christians on the boardwalk who want to ask you questions and those annoying Please rate your support experience questions that every sane person in the world hates?
I love them.
Seriously. I’ve tried to get paid to take surveys numerous times but I can never figure it out. (Or I make like 5 cents.)
When I was a teenager and all of my “cool” (read: freak, loser, outcast, druggie, awesome) friends would throw drinks at the teenager crusaders and run lightning fast away from them, I would seek them out. I adored answering their questions and making them think. Plus, getting their side of the story was kind of fun, too.
When the phone rings and it’s a survey person, I get incredibly angry when my dad or Jack hang up the phone. It’s like Of course I want to spend three hours on the phone answering the same question only slightly different over and over, why the hell don’t you?!
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Last Wednesday I was cleaning up the GIANT mess of cereal, milk, and pudding in my son’s (plush carpeted) room when the doorbell rang. But it wasn’t just like ‘bing-bong,‘ oh no. It was much worse than that.
I seriously thought the fucking world was ending. I thought the Zombie Apocalypse was happening and someone was coming to my house for safety. (In hindsight, I have no idea why anyone would come here.) It was like ‘BING-BONG/BING-BING-BING-BING-BING-BING/BING-BONG-BING-BONG/BING-BING/BING-BONG‘.
You would have thought the world was ending, too.
I’m exhausted. I’ve been trying to will myself to write, but all I can manage is to scroll through Facebook, see something that peaks my interest, and then Google random stuff that pops into my head due to the peak of interest about something quite possibly completely unrelated.
So I’ve decided to bring you into my mind for a moment.
I saw an article about a celebrity. And it made me wonder . . . (can you guess?)
Why — (which ‘why‘ question do you think I’m going to ask?)
You haven’t guessed my question yet, Google!
But you might be a little psychic, because why am I so tired?! Moving on.