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Bewildered Stranger in Heauxland

I always have a stream of thoughts at any given time, but the journey from brain to phalanges often sees to it that those thoughts never make it to paper.

Poof, like so.

Anyway.

I was on Twitter (surprise, surprise) today and thanks to dephrank, my timeline was flooded by tweets about hoes (surprise, surprise) and it led to my tweeting something which looked like a nugget at the time.

I said, “I swear everyday I convince myself that there are still non-hoes on earth. I haven’t found one yet, but the thought keeps me going.”

If you’ve been following me for long enough, you’d know not to place much stock on what I say about women (I really don’t know squat about that weird gender). I just tweet about them for the shock value. And the retweets.

However, soon I was accosted in my DM by a delectable lady who said “I’m not a hoe.”

Face to face with this declaration, I was forced to seriously reconsider my tweet. Do I really think women are hoes?

Perhaps we should define hoe. I wouldn’t consult a dictionary for this as anything I find there is bound to be derogatory.

Someone told me that ‘hoe’ is a degrading term for women, and that it’s all ‘sexual.’ A woman with multiple sex partners is a hoe, she argued, but what about a man with multiple sex partners?

I whispered, he is also a hoe. Then she asks ‘but which of them loses societal value upon being called a hoe?’

Then the discussion switched up into patriarchy and feminism (of course) and the wicked control my gender is exerting on the female population and I was like “WOOOOOOOOWNDBWJDNHEBHW!”

Ahem.

I have a few things to say here: I am not a member of the ‘patriarchy’. Well, not consciously. I respect a girl as much as I would a guy and I’ve never caught myself genuinely (sans my ‘shock value’ tweets) anti-womanhood.

With that said, I’d add also that I am a good man. A bit too good, even. I do not understand the social rules for man/woman relations, I wear my heart on my sleeve, I try not to hurt anyone and above all I’m considerate of my partner’s feelings.

The problem is these things have conspired to make me poorly adapted to the jungle that is the dating world nowadays.

It’s almost a given that you should cheat on your partner. At first I thought it was a joke, but lately everybody I know has cheated on their partner and I’m the weird kid in the back of the class making toy planes and going ‘brooooaahhhwwww!”

(Essentially I’m saying my inability to get with the ‘cheating program’ is making me look like a retard.)

I have never cheated, but I have been cheated on, and I’m still (probably) going to be cheated on tomorrow because I don’t wear Versace, don’t own a car or a beard, and also because (VERY IMPORTANT) cheating in a relationship IS A GIVEN.

I know you don’t see the problem, dear reader (having been designed and hormonally conditioned to cheat), but I couldn’t cheat if I tried. I actually need to be in love to make love (disgusting, I know), and I’m also not a ‘hot item’ in the meat market so my demand is pretty low anyways. I mean, if I had so many potential women to dip my ladle in, would I be here blogging? Aha. That convinced you, didn’t it?

So, yeah. It looks like I’ll always be the bewildered stranger in heauxland. Men are heauxes. Women are heauxes. Society understands this and plans accordingly. I am caught in the crossfire, having never read the rules of engagement before going out there.

 

stramger in heauxland

A Case for Humor

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So here I am in the dark corner of my mind. Don’t be afraid; I’m not about to break into some melodramatic pseudo-poetic monologue that leans heavily on words like “mundane”, “gloomy”, “fluttery” and “human spirit.”

I loathe those myself.

Anyway. Dark corner of my mind.

You see, this is where I go when I’m not on the job. If you are half as introspective as I am, you have that cavernous pit that is just cut off from the other interesting brain activity (like fantasizing about Jessica from Business Development). This part of your brain, I have been told, is the reason you always have to go through the stress of turning and mulling over every single thing you have ever said in your life.

It’s almost like there’s a dark, slanty-eyed beast with matted hair right there, you know? The one in my mind has a British accent: “Care to go down for a recollection of every single thing you’ve said today, ey, mate? Oi, you probably should have phrased your words better when you told Charles what to do with his ‘superior intelligence’, no? Aw, fookin’ hell. You should have not said that other thing you said about Maria, your ex. People might read it wrong. They will start thinking…stuff…about you, mate.  You revealed too much about yourself. You’re vulnerable…”

It’s so exhausting. And I’m there right now as I type this.

Look who’s in the dark corner of my mind. Brandy. Of course. And, of course, she’s wearing a suit and a disapproving frown.

“You’ve been reckless, Guy,” is what she says.

I sit heavily in the rusty chair at the far corner of the dark cave. I like to think it’s box-like, even though the lighting conditions don’t permit me to see much. I see Brandy vividly because, well, she’s brain intellectual property. Sort of.

“I know, I know. I shouldn’t have said what I said on Twitter.”

“You think? Why would you even say something like that?”

“Because it was funny,” I reply, and that’s the truth.

“It’s not funny if it makes someone sad, Guy. Your ‘joke’ was at the expense of someone else.”

I turn this particular statement over in my head. Seeing as Brandy (as she’s depicted in my brain) is the product of my imagination, it’s basically my brain chastising me for my recent Twitter recklessness. I examine this rebuke warily, as though from a stranger, and decide to become my own defense attorney.

“First of all, I’m a good guy. You know I am.”

“Debatable.”

“Come on! You know me!”

“Exactly. I have terabytes of information about from your childhood. I have examined them. You may be several things, Guy, but ‘good’ isn’t one of them. Would you like me to remind you about the time in secondary school when that girl – “

“I get it. Well. In this case, my primary intention wasn’t to hurt anyone. My first aim was to make a joke.”

“At another person’s expense?”

“ ‘Never let the truth get in the way of a good story.’ Do you know who said that?”

“Do you?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Neither can I. I’m connected to the same brain as you, Guy.”

“The point I’m trying to make is, if I considered that person’s feelings, I wouldn’t have made that joke at all.”

“I see. And how would that have changed the world?”

“Are you kidding? I had 36 retweets, fourteen LOLs and six favorites. The world is obviously the better for my hurtful joke.”

Brandy uncrossed her hands (she’s always shielding her cleavage from my roving eye) and walked up to my chair. “Let’s try another question: what was the cost of that joke you made?”

“The ‘victim’ unfollowed me, and two of their friends called me names.”

“What does that tell you?”

“That every good artist is often misunderstood by the minority but generally accepted by the crowd?”

“I despair of you.”

I cough politely.

“Say, have you heard the one about the Rabbit, the Horse and the Seaweed?”

“No, Guy.”

“No?”

“No.”

“It’s a really funny one.”

“Why do you think we’re here? You proclivity for making jokes during the most delicate situations!”

“What would you have me do? The world is sad and depressing enough as it is. The Boko Haram terrorists beheaded a Nigerian Airforce pilot the other day. People die daily. There’s Ebola and resurrecting Ebola corpses. Then there’s ISIL. Someone has to at least make some people laugh!”

“Don’t even make this a noble endeavor. You make jokes simply because you’re a douche.”

“You didn’t just use the D-word on me.”

“Your vocabulary on insults is quite limited. It was either that or asshole.”

“For the record, I’d have preferred asshole.”

“You should apologize to the people you hurt, and promise me you’d never make hurtful jokes again.”

“Can’t.”

“Why?”

“Are you kidding? I have thousands of followers. How the hell do you think I amassed the lot? With my charisma?”

“LOL.”

“Exactly. If I do not make offensive jokes, what do I have left? I have no presentable breasts, biceps, or beard to present to the avatar-hungry population.”

“Guy. You’re going to have to quit while you’re ahead.”

“Hehe. You said a ‘head’”

“Stop that idiocy. Listen. You are intelligent. You can be kind when you put in the required effort and – surprisingly – you are quite empathetic. Use these strengths. Be a good person. I know you can, Guy.”

I stared off into the haze of bleakness. My thoughts within my thoughts (I’m fighting the urge to say ‘thoughtception’) trailed off and I considered the shiny new idea Brandy had dropped in my lap.

I am still considering it as I write this.

The idea that one might be able to spread goodwill and cheer (aside: I once made a ‘goodwheel and chair’ joke that earned me a meagerly 7 RTs) without hurting anyone might actually be worth something.