Thinking of adopting in Mississippi? Well, if you’re Catholic, you’d better think again and hit the bloody road. You’ll have an easier time scooping up a kid out of Cambodia.
A Christian adoption agency in Jackson, Mississippi will not consider Catholics as adoptive parents. Had they mentioned any minority group or any combination of interracial couple, I wouldn’t have been surprised (given the location) but Catholics?
“It has been our understanding that Catholicism does not agree with our Statement of Faith,” wrote Bethany Christian Services director Karen Stewart in a July 8 letter to Sandy and Robert Stedman, a Catholic couple in Jackson seeking to adopt.
I’ve read both the Old and New Testament multiple times, and unless I missed the “Catholics, thou art the devil” verse, I’m struggling to understand how the Statement of Faith legitimately disqualifies Catholics from adopting. It makes no mention of Catholicism and only seems to reiterate the generalities of faith taught by the Bible and every other denomination of Christianity. If Catholics are out, then logically, Methodists, Lutherans, and even (gasp!) the Baptists over at Bob Jones should be banned.
“Our practice to not accept applications from Catholics was an effort to be good stewards of an adoptive applicant’s time, money and emotional energy.”
So basically, rather than pretending to be fair, bigots cut to the chase and tell you to get lost. This saves time, money, and emotional energy. Ya know, if I’m out to discriminate against a group, what the hell do I care if I waste their time, money, and emotional energy?? I’d invite them to apply by the dozens just so I can get my kicks from rejecting them. I’d buy an 11-inch stamp that said “DENIED!” in 4-inch, block letters and then I’d personally deliver the rejection letter to their homes.
“Hi, I’m Flash from the Bigoted Adoption Agency” [I'd be all smiles]
“Ohhh, is this the decision?”
[I'd grin ear to ear, growing giddy in anticipation of what would be to come. I'd watch them tear open the envelope, positive that they'd read a letter of approval. But then their mouths would fall open and the color would drain from their faces, as the horror and disappointment of rejection overtakes them. And then it would be my time to shine.]
“AAAHHHH HAHAHAHA!!! YOU SUCKERS!!” I’d point and laugh and taunt before running back to my car while continuing to yip and holler. Before getting in, I’d turn around and shake my bum at them. Then I’d hop in and honk while I sped away.
That’s how you fuckin discriminate. Not this farcical bull. The problem is these ass jockeys are still worrying about being “Christian” in the process. The second they left out a group – of other Christians, no less, all of that disappeared. Go ahead and be peckers about it, Bethany “Christian” Services – it makes no difference now.
Perhaps the board, short on oxygen after forgetting to remove their hoods, decided to adhere to the Klan’s Stars and Bars Statement of Faith rather than abiding by anything remotely related to Christianity… or morals. I guess that’s their bag but they should own up to their racist nature. Don’t hide behind Statements of Faith that don’t apply. They must assume the rest of the nation is at the same level of illiteracy as the residents of Jackson.
In light of that, I fancy I’ll head down to Jackson, Mississippi and see if I, a single, Apache Jewess with an eye for men of color and a willing attendee of a private school for Papists could be looked upon favorably in the selection process. I mean, my taste in men, religion, and ethnic background surely won’t count against me since I have such a winning smile. Anyone wanna play husband and join me on a trip down to Lynchville to see who we can piss off? I’m looking for the most non-white, non-Protestant combination out there … but a beautiful Peruvian man with curly hair would suffice
The Claret Jug is supposed to be a sacred trophy among golfers, right? So what’s it doing etched on this Ian Poulter’s pants leg? The Englishman is known for his wacky attire, and this might be the strangest one to date. The only good thing about the outfit is The Arsenal crest on his shoes. Check out the rest here – British Open: Fashion Bogeys.
In an unrelated note, my mum yipped at me today about cell my phone bill. “I just paid it a couple hours ago and I cannot believe you would ever be so incredibly careless and irresponsible. And no, I haven’t told your father yet, but this time, I’m going to because you simply refuse to respect the rules that we set for you.” The “this time” is in reference to “last time” when a phone call from my boyfriend last summer started around 8 am on a Monday and ran for nearly 3 days. Yes, people actually do talk that much, and I think I exhausted my daytime minutes about an hour into the call. Luckily, I eventually lost my signal and, after realizing my major error, stuck to speaking with him during the day by using AIM. Eventually my parents received the bill and it was in the ballpark of $500. Mum freaked out but let me off the hook with the stipulation that next time, she’d get my dad involved and take my phone away. As it turned out, she ratted me out anyway and I got blistered, but moving on.
So it was today that she tried to take my phone from me, as I apparently ran up my bill to $85.45. I pleaded with her – I check my minutes all the time, always conscious of how many are left on my plan. Surely an error had been made. “Well, I saw the bill just hours ago and was horrified by your continued displays of woeful immaturity.” At first I was suspicious. My mum is a Londoner and it takes an awful lot to either shock or impress her, let alone leave her horrified. I don’t know if my woeful immaturity even registers on the scale. So for a moment, I stopped taking her seriously and tried to imagine her as Mo’Nique – the plus-sized, black comedienne that’s on the Parkers, the Queens of Comedy, and Showtime at the Apollo [the Apollo is always on at 5 am. I think I'm one of the few late-night viewers]. With Mo’Nique yelling at me, all was well, until she said, “Now cough up the bloody phone.” I was taken aback. My mum is engrained with that annoying level of politeness stereotypical of most Britons and she doesn’t make negative comments; she rips you between the lines. So telling me to cough something up was a bit abrasive for her and I briefly wondered if my father had harassed her before she began harassing me. But this little period of contemplation was interrupted when she tried to grab the phone out of my hand. I pulled it away and fought back… with Sprintpcs.com.
And what do you know?! SOMEONE forgot to pay the bloody bill last month.
“Well I don’t know how that happened. The bill must not have come in or I must have misplaced it.”
Yah huh. Save it.
I’m on the board!
Patrick Vieira has been sold to Juventus FC for 13.7 million quid. [Moment of silence, please.]
The 29-year-old, who has been a member of The Arsenal since 1996, will join the Italian club on a five-year deal if he agrees to personal terms.
“When you spend nine years at the club, like I did, it is a difficult decision to leave. But in the end you have to make a choice for your future. It was a very difficult decision, but I am happy with it. I made the decision to leave because I felt it was time for me to have a new challenge. But that does not mean I was unhappy or that I was having a problem at Arsenal. It was just that I had the feeling I needed to grow and meet a new challenge, and I feel Juventus was the best challenge for me.”
While this news saddens me a great deal, it’s something that was going to happen eventually, as Skipper is at the top of his game and has been for quite some time now. Though I was a bit angry with him last summer for entertaining offers from those slags in Madrid, I remain thankful for every single day that he was a Gooner. It has been an honor and a privilege to watch Patrick Vieira these past 9 years, as he guided us to three Premiership titles and four FA Cup victories to become one of the greatest players in the history of not just The Arsenal but English football as well. I wish him the best of luck in his career in Italy and in his dealings with Juve’s neo-Nazi fans.
I’ll be back later on after I’m done weeping… and after I buy a new Vieira Juve kit.
As most of you know, I’m an insomniac. The only thing that bothers me (aside from the obvious) about being one is the word itself. “Insomniac” makes me sound like some sort of lunatic that prowls the street by night, seeking out the dark forces in hopes of joining their hellish crusade. That’s not what I’m about.. Well, at least not the hellish crusade.. I have enough going on. I used to frequent Kinko’s, Denny’s, 24-hour Wal-Marts, and the nearby Speedway – all friendly homes to the insomniac – but since I nearly got killed outside the Denny’s a few months ago, I’ve been a bit reluctant to wander about town. Instead, I waste the midnight hours parked in front of the telly with a remote in my hand and a bowl of popcorn in my lap.
I try to stick to ESPN, TNT, TV Land, AMC, A&E, and the History Channel. [I used to watch Sci Fi when they were re-airing Quantum Leap but now they only show stuff that scares the hell out of me.] But around 3-4 am, when I’m hitting my 2nd wind, most of these channels sellout to the infomercial. Try as I might to resist the siren song of Tony Little, Ron Popeil, and that crazy guy with the Riddler suit, my mum’s credit card number and I always fall victim to their tricks. At times, I order because I’m easily amused, and at others, I simply want to see if these things can do what they say they can do. The Perfect Pancake, Ronco’s “Set it and forget it” Rotisserie, Cold Heat, the Hot Dog Rotisserie Griller, the Donut Wizard, the Smart Ladder, the knives that cut boots and cans… We’ve had all of that at my house and eventually my parents bust my ass for being a mental defective and I have to return my purchases… Luckily, there’s usually a 30-day return guarantee.
So tonight, I lost control yet again and ordered The Magic Bullet and The Magic Juicer. No, these aren’t vibrators. They’re the most versatile cooking devices on the market today! These countertop magicians will replace your food processor, blender, electric juicer, and coffee grinder while occupying only the space of a coffee mug, and it’ll do any job in the kitchen in 10 seconds or less. I only wish I had a food processor, electric juicer, or a coffee grinder to replace. At least I “called now” and got an extra System for “free.”
I blame this purchase on the fact that I lack any reasonable amount of common sense and/or self control.. plus TNT is airing the X-Files episodes where Fox Mulder has been replaced by the T-1000 from Terminator 2. Agent Doggett is such an unpleasant experience that I am forced to watch infomercials and TJ Hooker & C.H.I.P.s on A&E to be entertained. Shame on you, TNT.. you insensitive pricks.
The sad thing [I guess there are multiple sad things about this happening] is that I may have consented to make three easy payments of $33 [don't you ever wonder if there are other hard payments involved?] because I was hungry and thought myself far less lazy than I actually am. This was folly. The chipper couple on the infomercial made chicken salad, blueberry muffins, omelettes, smoothies, shakes, alfredo sauce, soup, salsa, and nacho cheese, all in 10 seconds and it all looked so good! It takes me 10 seconds just to talk myself into talking myself into getting motivated to get out of my chair. My line of thinking was that since it takes me a couple minutes to get to the kitchen, why waste additional time creating snacks and beverages (especially when there’s a game of NCAA 2006 to play) when I can use The Magic Bullet and be back in 10 seconds? It’s possible that this flawed logic is a result of my insomnia but I doubt it. The level of jackassery that I achieved with this move is unparalleled for so early in the week… I’ve never created snacks or beverages in my life and other than Martha Stewart and Shonda Schilling, who has? The most effort I’ve ever put forth in having a snack is opening a bag of Ruffles, taking the lid off the dip, and popping the tab on my Coke can. I don’t even scoop ice cream into a bowl. I grab a spoon and the carton and set to work. If the ice cream is too hard, I give up and put it back. I’m a pathetic, lazy creature and with the purchase of the Magic Bullet System, I have shamed myself yet again. Please learn from my newest example of idiocy.. At least that’d be one of us.
— Backbackbackback…GONE! Chris Berman said his 80th “back” before Abreu broke Tejada’s first round record. I wish someone would sneak up behind him when he’s right in the middle of his schtick and crack his fucking head wide open. Yackety yack. It’s endless. Now I know he and Joe Morgan were struggling for things to talk about but come on. Whomever convinced Berman that his nicknaming abilities (that haven’t been good since ’92) are a better story than the players in the game should be confronted and dealt with in a severe manner. The only way Berman becomes a bigger story than the players is if he makes the news while Greenpeace is towing him back out to sea. I don’t want to see Berman on tv again until Tom Jackson is sitting there with him.
– Was I the only person that witnessed Johnny Damon and Mike Piazza engaging in asshat shenanigans during the pre-Derby “entertainment” while the ONE pyrotechnic device placed behind the drummer dazzled the crowd once every 30 seconds? They were up there with one of those New Rock bands that is on par with other trash like Nickelback, 3 Doors Down, Linkin Park, Limp Bizkit, and Matchbox 20. I don’t know the name of the band but I’m pretty sure it’s comprised of the douchebags that were in Creed before their lead singer coked out. What I do know is that not only do baseball players have horrible taste in music but Damon and Piazza rocked out (thankfully, not with their cocks out) to this musical poison like they were having flashbacks to a Van Halen concert (with David Lee Roth, of course)… Mike Piazza amazingly morphed into something straight out of a bad, live Winger video and for a second, I could picture him with a mullet, standing next to some girl whose beer-covered tits were hanging out because she just threw her top on stage. Total disaster. Though both men were initially quite fascinated with watching the lead singer do his thing, Piazza eventually lost interest and left to play air drums in front of the drummer. The good thing is someone lent him real drum sticks so he could play the air like a pro. As for Damon, he awkwardly attempted air guitar but given his hand position, may have actually been playing the bass. He then attempted singing but after realizing his microphone was off (and it took him a minute to catch on), he went back to what he probably knows best — headbanging. Whomever invited that tool band and tried to make everything all hip needs to be fired. I shudder to think what we could see tomorrow… hopefully Stuart Scott won’t show up.
– As for other things, how pissed are you if you were one of those Century 21 house contestants that got paired with Jason Bay or Hee-Seop Choi? I’d be suing somebody for not providing me with at least a decent opportunity to win. Maybe if the Home Run Derby were the Ground Rule Double Derby a couple of these poor saps would have a chance. At least David Ortiz’s people could have hope for the 3rd round and maybe beyond. But for the ones that had Jason Bay hitting, it was like he was giving their house away. This Baseball World Cup business actually sounds pretty cool, and I imagine it will be once they get the kinks worked out, but it served no purpose tonight.
All in all, I’m glad these horrible things didn’t detract from Bobby Abreu’s incredible performance. Besides, given what his fiancee did to him, he probably needed this.
As you are all aware, I’m no fan of Johnny Damon. I think I made my feelings quite clear in my post Lord of the Idiots. But yesterday I read about something that, sadly, compells me to lend my support to his wife, Michelle.
It’s only been a couple days since Johnny Damon virulently objected to the idea of Curt Schilling becoming the Sux closer. The thought is that Schilling, still recovering from an ankle injury and who knows what else, could be a short-term solution to what might be a long-term problem with the Sux bullpen. Keith Foulke has Danny Graves disease (apparently brought on by a knee injury) and Matt Mantei is also out of commission. Now I could care less where Schilling goes. He and his ketchup sock can go to.. bad places.. but I have no problem admitting that, as a fan of the game itself, the idea of his presence in the pen is quite tantalizing. But it seems that the reason Johnny may not have been down with the plan may be partly attributed to hostile feelings between his wife, Michelle, and Schilling’s bride, Shonda, over a spat about scarves.
During the 2004 ALCS, Shonda Schilling bought a collection of scarves and handed them out to the wives as a sign of solidarity for their men. But Michelle Mangan Damon (then just Fiancee Damon) refused to wear it and when the Yankees obliterated the Sux in Game 3, Michelle said, “A lot of good those (bleeping) scarves have done.” Shonda Schilling then lost it, “Well, if you were wearing one maybe your fiance wouldn’t be 0-for-16.” And then hell broke loose.
Mrs. Damon probably shouldn’t have commented on the scarves but I have a feeling it was said in a frustrated moment following months of positively annoying behavior from Schilling’s wife and for that, I say, good for you, Michelle Damon! Don’t let Shonda Schilling push you around! Like some of you girls reading this, I’ve spent a lot of time as a player’s girlfriend. And in every group of players’ girlfriends and wives, no matter the sport, it never fails that there is a pain in the neck, crafty ass that encourages the girls to dress up in jerseys, buttons, scarves, and creative hats to show unity while we support our men. This leader of the girlfriend brigade always believes these acts will energize the boys, as if we’ll be able to send beams of love and devotion from our little cheer block right down to the field or court. She is powered by the idea that behind every good player is the strong woman for whom he plays (which is at least somewhat true), and if you aren’t supporting him correctly at the games like the rest of the girls, you probably aren’t doing a very good job of it at home… this hurts the team and it also hurts her man, who tries so much harder than everyone else. So don’t resist her because when your man struggles (and he will), she’ll be right there with her snide comments, wearing the button she decorated with materials from Hobby Lobby.
Now I don’t begrudge the girlfriend or wife that tries to create a little solidarity amongst “the sorority,” but people like Shonda Schilling are right pains in the arse that must be stopped. It’s one thing to sit together, hang out, and offer support in times of need – no one knows what you go through with him the way a fellow significant other does – but Scarves of Destiny and other such items serve no reasonable purpose other than making these Martha Stewart-lites feel self-important. It’s all to ridiculous. It has to end.
Ladies, have some nachos, get a beer, cheer for your man, and make sure you’re lookin good when the camera pans to you after he makes a great play. Nothing else is required.
So what will Jenny Finch do with her life now? It’s a question for the ages. There are 28 sports in the Olympic lineup and 15 of them are complete bollocks. When I heard that the Olympic committee was planning to give a couple sports the boot, I was naive enough to believe they’d finally drop table tennis – an activity primarily played by two groups: the Chinese and stoners.
I’ve watched some of that craziness on ESPN and have come to the conclusion that players are under orders to make things overly complicated with big strokes and spins that force opponents to return shots while standing 10+ feet away from the table. Drop shot, anyone? Of course not. Then people might realize that Olympic table tennis is fucking ridiculous and the Chinese will have to rely solely on gymnastics and badminton for gold medals. One day people will realize that table tennis is as absurd as something like power walking, both being activities where insane histrionics hide the fact that you’re a patsy and that the only one who knows you’re doing legitimate cardiovascular exercise is you.
But back to the issue at hand. I can’t say I’m all that surprised. The Olympics are about one thing nowadays: making money, and even though Tommy Lasorda disagrees, baseball and softball simply aren’t a draw unless the games are in the States. Softball boasts (maybe) 5 countries with teams worth a damn and baseball is a niche sport (Americas & East Asia) that is internationally inferior to cricket and doesn’t showcase the world’s best. Soon enough, we’ll have 2 new sports, one of which could be rugby. In my SportsbyBrooks update 3 or 4 weeks ago, I brought up the following:
Captains of the world’s top 16 rugby sevens teams sent a letter of protest to IOC president Jacques Rogge after Olympic official, Denis Oswald, called the sport “something of a joke.”
I couldn’t agree more. Rugby Sevens? What a bunch of chumps. Rugby has nothing on fascinating institutions of sport like rhythmic gymnastics, trampoline, badminton, table tennis, and dressage. Rugby Sevens… the nerve.
If the committee is voting out baseball, the least it can do is bring an incarnation of rugby into the fold. Apart from the fact that I owe my life to the game, I’ve always fancied it as one of the best sports in the world. “But what about football?” Begin heresy: I love football but I’m in love with rugby. I think it’s fair to say that most of you view rugby as glorified option football wholly unworthy of our attention. Not surprising since your exposure is limited to the time you watched Fox Sports World at 4 am and the random experience with your university’s crappy club team.
But the game of rugby is one of both precision and brute force, where speed and split-second timing are as vital as strength and power. There are no pads and there are no helmets. You won’t find 350-pound flabbies sucking wind in vain and you won’t see others sitting out because the wind got knocked out of them. There is no getting tired, there are no timeouts, and if you must leave the pitch, you are not welcome to return. And in what other sport must players tape down their ears to prevent them from getting ripped off? Certainly not football.
As far as team sports go, rugby is the supreme test of strength, endurance, agility, and determination, wrapped neatly in a package of glorious, organized mayhem. It more than deserves to be introduced in the Olympics but knowing the ship of fools that is the IOC, we’ll probably be welcoming roller sports instead. If roller sports get in, it’d better damn well be Roller Derby. Nothing less will do.
It’s time for Jacques Rogge to kick his “teammates” to the curb and do the following:
My dad enrolled me in surfing school when I was 6 years old, four days into a developing hydrophobia caused by the movie, Jaws.
The Spielberg classic aired on one of those Sunday afternoon movie programs that local channels host upon exhausting their libraries of Star Trek: The Next Generation.
For nearly 3 hours (including commercials), I sat paralyzed with fear and by the time the credits rolled, I was not only afraid of the ocean but all other types of water as well.
Logically, I knew that Jaws couldn’t squeeze through the pipes and attack me in the bath nor could he wriggle his way through the desert and wait for me in our pool. But it really didn’t matter. I didn’t want to risk it, as when I closed my eyes, I saw my tiny body being chomped into bits like Roy Scheider’s boat and, well, that was upsetting.
For three days, I refused to take baths and eventually, my parents resorted to holding me in front of the garden hose in the yard. [Humiliating? Of course. But only because my siblings were laughing at me. Had I been alone with a sprinkler or Slip n' Slide, the experience would have received 2 thumbs up.] On the fourth day, we went to Mauritius on holiday with my extended family.
After again refusing to deal with water, my dad got fed up and enrolled me in surfing school, hoping that I’d learn how to confront my fears.
2 days of crying, a near drowning, and a couple faceplant wounds later, his plan started to work. I’ve lost my fear of water, accepted the fact that a shark might eat me, and have turned into a damn good surfer as far as amateurs go.
In any case, the good news is that tomorrow my dad is taking me to Evolution Surf, the best board makers in the world, to be calibrated for a customized, handmade surfboard. Needless to say, I’m pretty excited about this and am hoping to test her out during Christmas break. But since I won’t be doing much surfing between now and the winter, I’m thinking about selling one of my three boards (pictured above).
This is a 6’3 Wayne Lynch designed Surftech shortboard with round pintails that have exceptional volume flow and control – especially in waves with hollow barrels and heavy faces, FCS Tom Carroll Redline fins, Creatures of Leisure traction pad, and leash. I’ll even throw in some Sex Wax. If you’re not ready to buy a brand new board and are interested in an exceptionally fast, light, and durable one that’s made by the master of the shortboard revolution, let me know. If not, no sweat, I’ll just keep her. We’ve had good times together.
I have a new update at SportsbyBrooks, so check that out. I’d appreciate it.
For every bit of hero that Lance Armstrong is, I highly doubt that he’s a nice guy to be around during competition. Not that it’d be surprising… No truly driven person ever is, as there is no time for pleasantries when there are championships to be won. But does this backfire from time to time with teammates? Do the cyclists that make up the various support teams ever get pissed and have mid-ride fantasies about knocking their leader off his bike?
… It’s day 12 and they’re up in the mountains.. the oxygen is scarce and biting wind tears through their jerseys.. rain smacks their faces from every direction and their bollocks have long gone numb.. some crazed goon waving a loaf of french bread and an Italian flag nearly knocked them out of commission – again… Lance Armstrong and Team Discovery just blistered by them, obliterating any and all chances at victory.. And then their leader starts getting lippy.. “We have to make up time… you’re holding us back… we’re slow… your fault… blah blah blah.” And they look at him and start thinking that he’s no better than they are. “That arrogant, smarmy bastard. Nothing makes him special. If it weren’t for us, he wouldn’t be in this position. We made him, allowing him to reap the spoils for our hard work. He’s nothing without us… A fall would do him some good.”
Were I in that position, I don’t think I’d be mature enough to handle it. Captain Leader would find himself a victim of my attitude problem, hopelessly tangled in his bike on the side of the road. Oops! My foot kicked your tire. My bad, boss. I thought it was that Italian fan.
Kudos to these cycling teams for holding it together, both physically and mentally. The mental fortitude that one must possess to endure an experience so grueling is something that few can fathom.
Someone sent me an article called 10 Things Every Single Girl Must Own yesterday:
1. A fabulous photo of yourself where your smile, hair, and bod all come together in one sexy little package. Post that sucker at eye level on your fridge so your male guest can’t help but notice it as he checks out if you have beer (see #5). Keep a digital version handy so you can email it to online suitors or blind dates who want a glimpse of the goods beforehand.
The only things on our fridge are alphabet magnets, team schedules, and the menu to Golden Dragon. I’m pictured on one of the schedules but it is far from fabulous and sexy.
2. A pretty pair of heels. You can transform virtually any outfit to make it on-the-town ready by adding heels to a skirt, jeans, cropped khakis, whatever to make you stride more confidently. Plus, the taller you are, the more cute men you’ll be able to see around the room.
I’m 5’4 in cleats. What difference would heels really make?
3. An Eminem CD. What’s one of the first places a guy peruses when he walks into a woman’s home? Her music collection. Good for you if you have an extensive one. But if all he sees is a stack of girl bands, he’s going to panic. Balance out your collection with Eminem and you have no idea how relieved he’ll be.
Sorry to disappoint. I have 2Pac, Dr. Dre, and a little Snoop. If they aren’t good enough, I guess we part ways here.
4. A great pickup line and a way to blow ‘em off. We can’t always depend on guys to initiate contact, so prepare thyself with one simple, non-cheesy icebreaker to lay on that cutie who’s making his way to your area of the bar. And in cases when a guy initiates contact and you’re not interested, our suggestion: “Sorry, I don’t think the guy I’m seeing would appreciate it.” Sure, it’s a lie, but it’ll let him down easy.
I’ve never had a pickup line, but instead of blowing people off, I just give out the number to the time & temperature man from home. It’s effective.
5. A six-pack of good bottled beer. A prepared single girl is ready to host and toast at any time. Skip the mass-produced swill and go for microbrews.
I think I’m on board with this one. I drink Rogue, Guinness, Sam Smith, and Arrogant Bastard. We’re gonna be okay.
6. Bathroom reading. What man doesn’t appreciate finding interesting reading in his sweetie’s bathroom?
Any man who dates me sure won’t. Toilet books and toilet book readers are both foul and unacceptable.
7. A business card. After the age of 18, it’s no longer cute to scrawl your first name and phone number on a napkin and hand it to a man who wants to call you. So if your job doesn’t provide a card or you’d prefer one with your personal email address and phone number on it, then have some made at your local Kinko’s or for free from vistaprint.com. A napkin he can lose. A card he’ll file and keep.
Oh please. You never outgrow napkin-numbers.
8. Earplugs. There’s nothing sweeter than a man who wants to cuddle up for a long night’s sleep. Unless he snores so loudly you can’t get any sleep. Prepare thyself with a pair of earplugs.
9. A straight male friend on your speed-dial. Every girl knows she needs a gay male friend she can go to for fashion advice. But when it comes to relationship advice, you need someone who’s been there, done that.
10. A condom. Hey ladies, you know the drill by now. If you want to be able to have spontaneous fun of the bodily kind, you have to prepare for it yourself. You can’t always count on him to have something in his back pocket—or a 24-hour drugstore on the route home. If you don’t want it to break, you buy it.
Maybe this list is for the single girl that is desperate for a man but I wish the author made it more clear, as only one of two things is possible: she is a boob or there’s a reason why I’m not married. Aside from numbers 5, 9, & 10 (5 being an essential for life with or without men and 9 & 10 being common sense), I can’t imagine adhering to any of that nonsense.
Luring him to my fridge of beer so he can see my hot picture and feel reassured about things? Toilet books? Eminem cds? I have to think that if he’s drinking my beer, thumbing through my music, and spending so much time in the loo that he needs reading material, he’s way beyond interested – he’s been testing out number 10 on me for a while. Blast that list. These are my single girl needs and I think they’re pretty simple:
1. Sunglasses – the essential accessory for every ocular albino
2. Cell phone with unlimited minutes
3. Chapstick – the original brand
4. Ortho Tri-Cyclen
5. Buffalo Wild Wings Grub card
6. Playstation 2 (update: my new XBox 360)
7. Cable/DSL connection
9. Blockbuster card
10. Guinness draught and a proper pint glass
I’d throw in Brazilian bikini wax but that’s more an activity than a thing to own.
But in sum, I like: keeping my retinas pain free, my lips soft, and my eggs recklessly abandoned every month; talking to no end; and enjoying wings, pints and pints of good beer, video games, the net, music, and movies.
I’m a low maintenance girl and, as you can see, barely have 10 essential items for life, let alone 10 weapons in the war against singledom. I almost feel like I’m being lazy about it.