In Fifty Years We'll All Be Chicks: And Other Complaints from an Angry Middle-Aged White Guy (11 page)

STRIPPER NAMES

Stripper names are out of control. Remember back in the day when you’d go to a strip club and the stripper was named Candy? You knew her real name was like Shelly or Brenda, but Candy sounded sexier. Now when you go to a strip club, you ask the stripper her name and she’ll say Charisma, Allure, or Emotion. They used to use sexy names, but now they’re just making shit up. “I’m gonna go to the champagne room with Cubic Zirconia.” And you feel like an asshole because you have to use it. “Would you care for another Coke Zero and Captain Morgan, Fancia?”

And when they ask for your name, you always give them your real name, Jason. We should be the ones giving the fake names. I feel like we’ve got more to lose. You’re at an Outback Steakhouse with the missus celebrating your twelfth anniversary, and here comes a drunken Charisma: “Jason, I didn’t recognize you with your fly up. Don’t you remember me? From Bob’s Classy Lady? You bought me thirteen hundred dollars’ worth of Champale!”

What would be the harm in them giving us their real name? Oh, your name is Nancy? Let the stalking begin! And would you really need to stalk someone who works in their underpants at a place that never closes? I’m just saying, why bother stalking Julia Roberts if you could show up at her work, pop in a Warrant CD, give her twenty bucks, and she’d get naked and hop on your lap?

Fellas, from now on we start using fake names. Next time you go to Jumbo’s Clown Room and the stripper says, “I’m Essence, what’s your name, honey?” you say, “I’m Colonel Duke LaCross. How’s it feel, bitch?”

THINGS CHICKS ARE INTO

Chicks are into fashion. My wife watches those
Project Runway–
type shows where the model is strutting down the catwalk and Rachel Zoe is going, “Oh my God, Oh my God” about the dress. Lynette will give me the stink-eye because I say to the TV, “I could do that. I could put that dress together. I wouldn’t want to put that dress together, but if you gave me a sewing machine and some taffeta, I could knock that shit out. Easily.” It’s true. Making a car or being an architect is much more difficult than fashion, but everybody goes nuts for these fairies.

Speaking of dresses, let’s break down the myth of the thirty-five-hundred-dollar wedding dress. Every woman pulls this shit on her soon-to-be husband. Inevitably he’ll complain about the cost of a dress that she is only going to wear once, and she’ll reply that it will be an heirloom and that her daughter will wear it on her wedding day. Really? Then why aren’t you wearing your mom’s dress? You know she pulled the same shit on your dad in 1975, right? And with fashions going out of style from year to year and season to season, what are the chances that the burnt-orange, crushed velvet shower curtain your mom wore in the mid-seventies is going to be all the rage thirty or forty years later?

And what’s with women and the dress they can wear only once? My wife will be like, “I wore that to Howard Stern’s wedding—I can’t be seen in it again.” First off,
I
don’t remember the dress you wore to Howard Stern’s wedding, and everyone else there was shit-faced. You’re the only one who knows you wore that dress. Second, this is insanity. You just paid nine hundred dollars for three yards of cloth and sequins that you think the queen from
Project Runway
made, but that was really stitched together by some husky Nicaraguan mother of five for a quarter an hour. The true cost of this dress is $38.50, but you’re dipping into the kids’ college fund to buy it because the nearly identical dress that was good two months ago is now expired. This is the argument I would make to all the feminists who get pissed when someone points out that men are better at math than women. Crunch those numbers. Nine hundred dollars for a dress you’re going to wear once, or the seventy-five bucks we pay to
rent
a tux?

And women won’t fill us in on what a size-14 dress is versus a size-2 dress. It’s their own little secret language, so we’re constantly confused. Why can’t they just use inches like we do? For us it’s easy: If a guy has a thirty-two-inch waist, he’s slim; if he’s got a fifty-five-inch waist, he’s a lard ass. If a chick is a size 8, I have no idea if she’s Kate Moss or Kate Smith. They’re doing that to keep us off guard. It’s sort of like what Europe does with the metric system. I heard an interesting study once. Plus-size models are usually size 12 through 14, and the average woman is size 14. So the average woman walking around the United States is at the upper end of what we would call a plus-size model, except she’s got an ugly face.

Of course, they wouldn’t want to be models anyway. These girls always say that they didn’t want to get into modeling—someone signed them up for the International Model Search competition, or they went along with a friend who was auditioning for a Maybelline campaign and the casting agent pointed at them instead. They’ll say anything but admit they looked into the mirror on their fifteenth birthday and saw a piping-hot chick staring back and thought, I could really cash in on this great genetic hand that was dealt to me. The reason you know their story is bullshit is because if they wanted to stay in school and become veterinarians, they would have done it. There’s no federal mandate that says: All hot chicks
must
model. And of course the ugly male version of this is the stand-up comic. He can’t admit he thinks he’s the funniest motherfucker on the planet, so when you ask him how he got into comedy, he says he went out to a comedy club and some friends “pushed him up onstage.” What kind of club is this where you can take a guy who’s never held a microphone in his life, push him up onstage, and have him do a set? The few times I’ve seen a guy take the stage who wasn’t supposed to be on it he was immediately dragged off it by a large Samoan man. And can’t you just say no? What if your buddies signed you up to do some gay porn? Would you just shrug your shoulders and say, “Well, I guess I’d better start lubing up.”

The reluctant comedian and the reluctant model would be perfect for each other because her
Playboy
profile says she loves a guy with a sense of humor. My ass. I’ve seen the guys you’re with. You hooked up with Lorenzo Lamas, bitch. You love a guy with a shaved chest and a spray tan who talks about himself in the third person.

Every time I interview one of these six-foot blondes and say, “You must have driven the boys crazy in high school,” they always give me the sob story about being “awkward” and not being asked to the prom. I’ll buy that with your Sarah Silverman types or that chick who played Juno. But if you’re Cameron Diaz or Jessica Biel, you’re either lying or went to school with a bunch of fags.

And apparently modeling is a miserable life. I remember hearing a few years back Tyra Banks talking about going to France when she was sixteen and how lonely it was and blah blah blah. Fuck you. You know where I went when I was a teenager? The Lawry’s Seasoned Salt factory in Eagle Rock. I left with a shirtful of tears and a packet of taco seasoning. I never left the county, much less the country.

Let me take a minute to officially nominate Tyra for Blowhard of the Century. I train with a guy named Terry Claybon. He is a boxing trainer to the stars. At his gym, he has signed pictures of some of his clients thanking him. Matt Damon thanked Terry. Nicolas Cage thanked Terry. Joe Rogan thanked Terry. But not Tyra. While everyone else had a picture of themselves with their arm around Terry saying thank you, she brought in her own picture of just her looking all greased up in a bikini with the following message:

“Thanks for making me strong, confident, and powerful. Can’t nobody fuck with me now.” And she signed it “Butterfly,” after Muhammad Ali.

This is the height of blowhard narcissism. First, I’m sure the “Butterfly” nickname was self-applied. This is something hacks do: They attach themselves to people with actual talent in hopes of some reflected glory. But more egregiously, her thank-you did an e-brake-slide 180 and turned it right back on her. I wonder if she does this everywhere? What about the dry cleaner’s? “You guys are the best. Thanks for making me look so smoking hot in the blouses you cleaned.”

When Tyra isn’t thanking herself while thanking someone else, she’s doing a hidden-camera sting in a fat suit. This just in: Being fat and ugly makes your life harder. I know, shocking. Why is it always the hottest actresses and models telling us how beauty comes from within? I used to go insane over one of NBC’s “The More You Know” PSAs, in which
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit model Molly Sims says, “What makes you special is not what you wear or who you hang out with. Being proud of yourself is what really counts.” Thank you, hot skinny blond successful actress. I’m sure the chunky teenager behind the counter at the Quiznos in Tustin heard you loud and clear. Do you have no sense of hypocrisy? You’re only asked to make the goddamn PSA because you’re hot. We’d have no idea who you were if we didn’t want to fuck you. If I’ve learned anything from supermodels, it’s that as long as you “feel” sexy, men will be magically attracted to you. It doesn’t matter if you are pockmarked and weigh 550 pounds, and sixty-five of those pounds are neck goiter. It’s all about how you “feel.”

We’ve all bought into this retarded adage about beauty coming from within. Has anyone ever stopped and thought what an asinine statement that is? I like cars. But if somebody ever asked me what makes a ’69 Ferrari Daytona so beautiful and I said the engine block, I’d be a lying asshole.

Women also perpetuate this retarded myth where “I wear lingerie for
me
—it makes
me
feel beautiful.” Then why don’t you wear it around the house when you’re alone? It’s such bullshit: Everything you do is for someone else. If I heard women were attracted to a fecal-matter swastika on my forehead, I’d be sticking my index finger up my ass shortly after I found out that information.

So since you’re clearly doing it for us, let me give you a list of things we’re
not
into.

GIANT HOOP EARRINGS
Who is this for? This is tribal ornamentation. We’re not Kalahari Bushmen. And it is going to work out terribly for you when you get in a fight and the bitch at the club uses them as a handle to smash your face into the bar.

If you’re going to do earrings, just go with the simple stud in the lobe. And that’s it. We’re not into the weird piercings, either. We don’t like the dumbbell going through the nipple, the spike in the tongue, or the clitoral-hood piercing. Or that little stud in the nose that looks like a giant blackhead or a clove pushed into a Christmas ham.

TATTOOS
Tattoos are wasted effort. Every time I look in
Playboy
I want to shout at Hugh Hefner that we want the girl next door, not the whore. The college student looking for an extra hundred bucks for books, not the skank who gets teamed on the pinball machine. Every girl in that magazine now has fake tits, is thinner than the coke rails she’s doing in the bathroom at the club, and has a tramp stamp. Also, tattoos have totally ruined period porn. And by period porn, I mean that it’s set in a different time period, not some disgusting fetish. You’re supposed to be Cleopatra. I sincerely doubt she had a Tasmanian devil on her left ass cheek.

FINGERNAILS
We almost never notice your fingernails. And that’s a good thing. It means you’ve either done nothing or gone with some simple, subtle polish. When we do notice your nails, it’s because you look like Edward Scissorhands got a job at Earl Scheib. No guy is attracted to the three-inch press-on nails with a unicorn emblazoned on them. I would love to build a giant digital counter billboard, like the one they use to keep track of the deficit, showing the amount of time women have spent on their nails. I’d build a billboard next to it that says
GUYS GIVING A SHIT ABOUT CHICKS’ NAILS
. The first one would have millions of hours registered, and the only thing on the second billboard would be pigeons.

BIG JEWELRY
How do you define big jewelry? Like the Supreme Court defines pornography: I’ll know it when I hear it. If I can hear you getting out of the car from inside the restaurant, you’re wearing too much of it. This isn’t the Old West—we don’t need to hear your spurs jingle-jangle-jingle. Though it is nice that we can hear you coming down the hallway when we’re on the computer looking at YouPorn. The jewelry acts like a cowbell that gives us a fifteen-second heads-up to close the laptop. I’m not interested in fucking Mrs. T.

ARMS
Chicks never stop talking about Madonna’s arms or Michelle Obama’s arms. I’ve never met a guy who’s given a shit about a chick’s arms. Don’t get me wrong, guys aren’t into fat arms, but fat arms are usually attached to fat women who have fat asses. Now back to Madonna. No guy wants to be with a chick who has arms like a junkie on a crew team.

HAIR
Big hair has been out since Reagan used his DeLorean to beat the Russian hockey team in the Olympics (my recollection of the eighties is a little fuzzy). But for some reason a lot of chicks still do their hair like they’re gonna party like it’s 1989. We don’t want the crispy hair; we want to be able to run our fingers through it without breaking them.

There’s also the weird multicolored hair with the skunk stripes. Just like the fingernails, we don’t want anything that draws attention to itself. A little highlighting is one thing, but we don’t want your hair to look like a bag of Skittles.

And short haircuts. This is a thing chicks like on other chicks. Girls always tell other girls how cute they look with a short haircut. But they’re really thinking, That’s one bitch I ain’t gonna have to compete with. I’ve never heard one of my male friends say, “That girl would be hot if only her hair looked like Moe Howard’s.”

MAKEUP
By all means put on a little foundation, but the closer to natural the better. Nobody wants to be seen entering the club with the sad hobo clown from a velvet painting. Again, just like the nails, the hair coloring, and the muscles, moderation is the key. We don’t want the caked-on mascara that makes you look like a crazy Armenian bank teller. We’re not into the fake painted-on eyebrows or the two-tone lipstick where you line the outside of your mouth with a Sharpie.

Just give me a woman in her natural form. I don’t need the rodeo-clown makeup, the giant hoop earrings, the tats, the piercings, or any of that other shit. It’s not the Mexican lottery show. I don’t need that much going on.