Summertime Fun: A Guide To Not Swimming

Are you a hydrophobic introvert who is being incessantly hounded to don the latest fashionable swimsuit and take the aquatic plunge? Do your friends insist on showing you a secret waterhole they claim only a select few know about? Is every grocery store’s beer aisle attempting to sooth you with the sweet sunny melodies of the Beach Boys? Well, worry no further my sweaty friend. I have composed responses to many of the things your water-loving cronies may say to you.

I always assumed stating the simple fact that I’m an aerobic organism that’s unable to respire underwater would be enough for people to understand why I prefer not to swim, but they continue to look at me like I just told them I occasionally molest gophers. What follows are some of the actual things people have said to me about swimming over the years. When I hear these things I usually just smile and nod or think of a lame excuse not to swim – like I don’t own a bathing suit (true) or I’m made out of starch and will disintegrate (not so true). But, I think I’ve finally had enough. While I could actually voice my opinion to these people face-to-face like a grown up, I will instead act like a true product of my generation and rant about it on a blog.

“It’s so much easier to move in the water.” No it’s fucking not. I absolutely guarantee I can run faster than you can swim. Michael Phelps can’t swim faster than a brisk jog. Also, I can prove mathematically that it’s not easier to move in water than it is in air. It’s called the drag equation (this is not a formula to become the best dressed man in women’s clothing – or the other way around).

Act Nice And Gentle To Me

I took a philosophy course once in college, and I think I’d rather drag my dick through a mile of broken glass before ever doing that again. It wasn’t the fact that the entire thing was the intellectual equivalent of shitting in your hand and throwing it against the wall that made me so apathetic; it was the realization that none of what I heard was something I could ever embrace (I’d like to note that as of late, writing has felt like standing in for the wall). I would never let any of the outcomes of this so called intellectual masturbation govern my life or give it meaning (advice: instead of attending a philosophy course, try actually masturbating instead – it’s way more fun). In fact, the only real philosophy I can say I have is that most people are going to lead a shitty life and then die.

photo dfoster

I think it’s important to keep this in mind as we stumble our way through life, though I admit it’s not actually a philosophy so to speak, nor is it insightful. It’s just an understanding I came to a while ago that I think most people try to hide from in a shallow pool of ignorant optimism. As an aside, I’m pretty sure the happier you are, the stupider you are, though I’m still working on the graphs to prove so.

This Isn’t How You Do It

legit news can suck it

Due to the obnoxious heckling from several of my coworkers, I reluctantly joined some stupid online dating service. So far I’m doing pretty well. I received messages from three fat chicks and a girl who listed bi-polar disorder under the “First Things People Usually Notice About Me” category – I’m seriously thinking about talking to her. I did send a message to a very nice looking lady because she had this 60s Italian film called Blow Up listed as one of her favorite movies, along with some other cinema I’m a big fan of.

I labored over the two paragraph message for almost an hour, scrutinizing every word, and in the end produced something witty and playful that made me sound charming, but with a hint of melancholy just below the surface (so not really me at all). Her reply was a little startling. She must have either had somebody proof read her profile page or she drank half a liter of Schnapps and pumped her ass full of horse tranquilizers before she wrote me her reply, because it was so full of grammatical errors I had trouble deciphering the meaning of half the sentences. She also didn’t use periods. Like, at all. Doesn’t believe in them apparently. You know how hard it is to read something that has no punctuation or capitalization in it? It’s goddamn fucking hard is what it is. I’d rather try and translate ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics than have to look at that mess of shit again. I started to get anxious halfway through it and was practically having a full-blown panic attack by the end. It went something like this:

hey i’m anna i really liked your profile pic you have nice hair : ) yeah woody allen is great but a lot of his movies are all sort of the same blow is one of my favorite but dont really like chick flicks though everybody thinks I would lolz accept maybe breakfast at tiffanys wich i noticed you like as well i think thats cute cuz…

Shut the fuck up. What are you five years old? And don’t ever talk about Woody Allen ever again. Wait, you have writing listed as one of your hobbies? Really? Are you fucking serious? I hope you die of autoerotic asphyxiation… actually, I don’t know if girls do that. Is that only a guy thing? I’m not even sure how it works. I think it has something to do with cutting off the oxygen flow to your brain so your orgasm is more enjoyable. I don’t get that. Who orgasms and then thinks to themselves, “Well, that could have been way better.” You’re doing it wrong buddy. Try the left hand or something. Don’t strangle yourself; that’s just reckless.

The thing is, if you’re a nice, intelligent, interesting, attractive girl, why would you be doing online dating? You wouldn’t. You would either have a boyfriend or be out on the town bashing boys out of your way with a large club and trampling over their corpses until you found the one you wanted. That’s normal. Or, maybe you don’t want a boyfriend, and would prefer to stay home at night and watch re-runs of Felicity and touch yourself. That would be understandable too. The point is, you wouldn’t be uploading pictures of yourself to a website full of losers, and answering questions like, “What would you do if you caught your significant other watching porn?” in the hope that you’ll meet Mr. Fantastic and his ten inch…

So far I’ve discovered two types of women who use this site. There’s the some-combination of fat, ugly, and stupid ones, and then there’s the attractive girls who joined because they thought it would be funny (also very likely to be retarded as demonstrated above). Well, I ain’t laughin’ bitches. I keep getting recommendations to message cute girls who haven’t logged on for six months and there doesn’t seem to be any preference to solve this dilemma.

After about two days of putting up with this, I said fuck it, and started messaging them anyway, since it’s not like I have anything better to do. It’s not so bad really. I actually find it sort of entertaining to get drunk and write long messages to hot women knowing that they will likely never read them. I’ll search for my type of girl (the cute hipster breed) who hasn’t logged on since November of last year, pull up the compose window, and start typing whatever comes to mind. I sent “vinyllover” about a thousand words on the current state of affairs in Libya and how Syria isn’t getting the press coverage it deserves. One girl got a very educational four paragraph description of how lasers work, and “cutelexi4u” received a lengthy explanation of why I don’t own a cat but would like to.

Maybe they’ll log in one day, read them, and it’ll change their lives, or maybe they won’t, and my prose will simply fade into the Internet ether, never to be read by anyone but me. Either way, leave it to me to take something so purposefully designed to get you laid, or at least get a date, and turn it into a way to sit alone and drink. One of my best friends says I’m simply not trying. He also says encouraging things like, “That’s your problem. You’re stupid,” and “Why can’t you think like a man?” and “You’re a punk. You don’t have that go with the flow sort of desire that will land you a woman.” He’s a good guy. I think he should be a motivational speaker but I think he has other plans.

In conclusion, do any KAB readers speak whatever language Anna does and can tell me what to say to her so she’ll sleep with me? I don’t want to but it will make my friend proud.

Don’t Take Me Home Until I’m Drunk

With the recent amount of actual news and reporting on KAB, I imagine the bullshit they let me put on here will seem even more out of place than usual.

“I sabotaged her computer so she would have to call me to fix it. That way I’d get to talk to her. Oh, and I connected to her computer and went through all of her stuff of course.”
“What? Really? Why don’t you just go and talk to her Matt?”
“Lopez, I don’t want to seem like a creep.”

I think I still have a bit to learn about this whole courtship thing. In my defense, if the other help desk guy hadn’t shown up to work early that day and fixed her computer before I had the opportunity to, it may have worked out. What can I say? I’m a romantic.

Actually, it wouldn’t have worked out because as it turns out, Cute Girl Who Works In Sales has a boyfriend, which makes sense – most cute girls have boyfriends. I found out about the boyfriend situation when, two days later, her computer broke all on its own, and I came skipping in to fix it with bright eyes and a big stupid smile on my face. I felt like a fucking butterfly I was so happy. The stars had aligned for sure, I thought. And oh boy, they aligned all right. They lined right up to fuck me in the ass. Thanks stars. In the end I got turned down for lunch through an email. It could have been worse I suppose; she could have sent me a fax.

I think I need to find out how to differentiate between when a girl is flirting with me, and when she is trying to giggle at my bad jokes in an attempt to cope with how terribly awkward I am around pretty girls. What I’ll do is start hitting on ugly bitches. Wait, hear me out. Trust me, this is scientific; I’m not lowering my standards. I’m doing research. Stand back while I attempt science folks…. If I go and make my bad jokes around the unattractive chicks and they act the same as the hot chicks, I know the hot chicks are flirting with me because I won’t have the “talking to a pretty girl awkwardness” about me. I’ll just be normal semi-awkward Matt. This is legit. I’m serious. I’ll wear a fucking lab coat when I do these studies. There will be charts, graphs, and lots of arrows pointing at things. I was a hard science major. I rocked an A in advanced physics lab. This will be as easy as pushing an old lady down a flight of stairs.

All of this is to build confidence. Bitches loooooovvve confidence (bitches also like it when you put a lot of repeating letters in words to emphasize them). Then I’ll be able to continue my research even further. More charts, more graphs, and even bigger arrows.

It will all culminate in a formula. It’ll probably be logarithmic – it’s always fucking logarithmic. It won’t be some bullshit unification theory formula either. I don’t give a shit about the four fundamental forces. This will be way better. This will be the equation to women, and therefore the equation to ultimate happiness.

Want to know why your girlfriend left you? Solve for x asshole. Bam. There you go.

Hey, why does my girlfriend seem to ask me questions there is no right answer to? Integrate with respect to time motherfucker. Boom. There’s your answer. Ah yeah.

Then I’ll just patent it, sell it to the highest bidder, and make many men happy. It will be as if Rogaine fucked Viagra – better than curing prostate cancer. Life solved. I’ll die happy for sure.

And thus we come to the end of the formula – not the impossible formula for understanding the eccentricities of the female mind, but the formula for everything I ever write for KAB. Start with something outlining a serious point, expand on it to the point of absurdity, and hide it under a wrapping of profanity. When the dust settles, conclude with a short paragraph of honest inner reflection. Mention how you drink too much. Allude to how despondent you feel. End with a few words of apathetic observation. It’s an easy equation to solve, though the answer is hardly worth the effort.

… until I’m very drunk indeed.

I’m Trying To Find This Girl

There was this girl in middle school who was pretty, and nice, and she talked to me once. That was enough for me to fall in love with her. I’d like to think I’ve matured since then but that’s still about all it takes. By my count, I fall in love on average about four times a week. Sometimes I sneak in a stipulation regarding intelligence in an attempt to augment my standards but I often find my regard for it muddled in the sub-conscience desire I have to put my penis in, on, or at least next to the girl in question. It’s not a conscience choice because I’m so self deprecating that even in a state of reverie I can’t get laid. In my imaginary world, that I have complete fucking control over, I somehow manage to shit all over everything. I end up with a modest fantasy about getting coffee with a girl I know nothing about, and with Pygmalion like control, shape her as I see fit, chiseling away the imperfections and filling in the cracks until she is perfect. Having carved a woman from ivory who is far too good for me, I am of course rejected and am forced to go home and masturbate myself to sleep. But that’s in my fantasy. In real life I’m actually masturbating fantasizing about masturbating after rejection. Rejection itself seems great but I never get that far. It’s very confusing. It’s like watching Inception but with your dick in your hand and considerably more crying.

I blame all of this on Marry Poppins of course.

You’d like me to explain that wouldn’t you? Okay.

Every person around my age or younger had that one movie they would watch over and over again as a child. Usually around the age of three or four we would come across a cartoon, fall in love, and that’s all we’d ever want to watch for the next year. I think this might be the first thing we ever love actually. I didn’t know this until about a month ago, or maybe I had banished it to the deep, dark recesses of my forgotten nightmares, but when I was four years old my cinematic love affair was with a retarded musical by the name of Mary Poppins.

Sweet merciful Christ, there’s no way that didn’t fuck me up, right? You might be able to watch that movie a couple times and still maintain your sanity, but not everyday for a year straight. This rosy cheeked nanny, who clearly dabbles in cocaine as much as she does witchcraft, comes down from the clouds on a fucking umbrella, blows a bunch of little old ladies down the street, and then has the audacity to declare herself perfect in almost every way like she’s the the second coming of the messiah. She’s a selfish, disciplinary bitch who is about as pompous as the pope and is so implausibly happy she can actually sit through a fifteen minute dance routine between five animated, indentured penguins and a lunatic chimney sweep pretending to be a penguin.

I’m surprised I have my shit together as well as I do now. It should be considered child abuse to let that happen. Make me watch racist shit like Dumbo. Hell, make me watch Dwarf Goes Fishing or Ernest Scared Stupid. Anything. But Mary Fucking Poppins? Really? Children are very impressionable at that age. It surely messed with my developing brain. I have undoubtedly been carrying around some serious mental baggage from it that will stick with me until I die, like one of those nasty STDs you get from banging a Tai hooker. Instead of letting your kid watch Mary Poppins, do them a favor and just give them herpes instead. They’ll be better off.

But instead of having a parent who loved me and would never do that to an innocent child, I was subjected to a crazed musical countless times over and now I am incredibly attracted to Marry Poppins. That’s the amazing part. It freaks me out but I can’t help it. Maybe it’s something about her outfit and the way she speaks. She’s all proper and has a nice British accent. She has really great hair too. And nice hats. That has always sort of done it for me. It’s enough for me to excuse the fact that she probably abuses LSD on a regular basis. In my defense, when the film came out Julie Andrews was only 29, so not all that much older than I am now. I tested to see if maybe I just have the hots for a young Ms. Andrews. I threw on The Sound of Music. Nothing. I actually sort of hoped the Germans would kill her whiny, singing ass. Victor Victora? Too old already. Cinderella? She was my age in that film but I’m not feeling it. No, I don’t care for Julie Andrews. That’s not it at all.

While I was visiting Albany over the holidays, one of my best friends had me chart out my ideal woman. He thinks I’m a sad, lonely bastard who drinks too much and needs a nice girl to make me happy. This activity was supposed to help. It involved describing this elusive damsel’s disposition, personality, interests, tastes, desires, and of course her body. I had to come up with places I might meet her, the first thing I’d say to her, and how I might go about seeing her again. It filled up several pages of a Moleskin and took multiple cups of coffee to finish at the Ultraviolet Cafe (trying desperately to relate this to Albany somehow). Of course I just had to run Mary Poppins through this gauntlet of dissection. She didn’t do too well. She got points for her looks and having a fashionable wardrobe. I figured she can cook pretty well and probably has a nurturing side even if she is a total cunt. Personality suffered a dreadful loss however. I doubt we’d have much in common. I definitely wouldn’t be running into her outside a Scorsese flick. But I don’t care. I still want to do nasty, perverted things to her.

This has been a difficult revelation for me to live with. For the longest time as a child, being raised by an athiest, whenever people talked about God, I thought they were talking about Godzilla and they were just abbreviating it. When I found out what they were actually talking about I was very confused and my insides felt funny. That’s how I’ve felt the last month. Maybe I’m overreacting.

I think this might have leapt the boundary from comical into bizarre. Actually, I think it sprinted across that boundary naked almost five paragraphs ago. I’m writing this with my friend Jim Beam and he whispers peculiar things in my ear while I’m trying to think – stops the dogs from barking at least. I suppose I’ll just end with a warning: If there are any pretty, nice, optionally intelligent girls out there (preferably with a Mary Poppins costume), who are willing to talk to me, prepare to be fantasized about in really weird ways.

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