'Tales Of Misanthropy III: Women & Their Fuckwit Boyfriends'

by Andy Carrington.

Many of my female friends have complained to me down the years that they want a decent guy and then somehow fall in love with a complete and utter fuckwit.

The stupidity of the female gender to go for the current fashion trend of the pretty boy wearing a yellow Henleys t-shirt, with a stupid mullet shit on his head, and one of those Goddamn Jesus Loves You belts is quite baffling.

And it's not just an image thing -- these guys really are idiots on the personality front. Having worked in numerous bars down the years, I've had the opportunity to go out afterwards and drink plenty of beer with various random folk. Believe it or not, I was once actually cool enough to be invited out for after-work beverages with this brand of male and I sat and observed the way these guys tended to act. They liked to stand there with their group of mates in the town's trendiest bar, smirking with their chiselled jaw, with a pint of Magners, over ice, in hand, attempting to showcase a knowledge of the music scene by talking about the latest Kings of Leon tune that they've downloaded for their iPhone.

Fucking Scenesters.

But what disgusted me most were the women that pursued this brand of male. I sat back and observed as the females came flocking over -- attempting to elbow me the fuck out of the way -- and press their baggy blonde-haired fanny lips against the legs of these Godly men in tight-arsed Diesel jeans.

Absolute Morons.

And before you jump down my throat about my prejudice towards blondes, consider this: It's not that I have a problem with that particular hair colour; it just pisses me off when intelligent women (that I know) dye their hair that colour because they want to look like every fucker else on the town. Then they start putting up that stupid "dizzy blonde" act to provoke laughter from a nearby cloned group of male fuckwits because, apparently, that is the only way a woman is going to get noticed in this modern world.

So a relationship soon develops between two imperturbable arseholes after the night ended with the pretentious "Mr. Brightside" by The Killers in the town's trying-to-be-trendy-shithole-of-a-nightclub. They fuck on their first date (if they didn't do so already done down the nightclub's back alley, next to a big red Biffa bin) after an "emotional" night-in watching cinema flicks starring bum-boys Matt Damon and Ben Affleck.

Exhibit Male A and Exhibit Female B may also attend a shopping mall together at a later date, as a way to celebrate their new-found puppy love. Female B may suggest that Male A should buy a new white V-neck t-shirt from Topman because he muckied his whilst attempting to showcase some knowledge for fixing cars by sticking his head under the bonnet of his brand-new 1.2 Vauxhall Corsa earlier that week.

The big test, however, will come the week after when they both decide to next hit the town -- as a couple. Male A will wear his brand-new V-neck that his girlfriend kindly bought him as a one-week anniversary present. Male A will also ask to to borrow Female B's hair straighteners during the preparations; and with, he will spend a considerably longer amount of time getting ready than she has.

Feeling pissed off that they missed their taxi into town from all the fuss over looking like Barbie and Ken, Female B is dripping wet from the rain (she's never been so moist in her life) and has to hit the ladies room to dry her blonde shag of a hairdo as soon as they make it into the first pub. Male B now becomes pissed off because he's been stood at the bar, by himself, for twenty mins after fucking all his cool mates off to come out with his bird. On top of that, they've run out of ice for his Magners. Poor bastard.

Eventually reunited, the couple spend the rest of the evening stood side by side at the bar, in complete silence. They suddenly realise that they have nothing in common besides their looks, and would feel much more comfortable standing in amongst their group of cool friends, gawping at all the talent on show. The relationship breaks down over text message the following day, via Male A's stereotyped expression "It's not you; it's me."

Realising that she no longer knows who she is after this "devastating loss", the recently-dumped female cries and creams "Why can't I just find a decent man?!" to the shoulder of her faithful nice-guy friend, Andy, whom she had somehow forgotten about during her days in "love".

His apathetic response is "Because you are a fucking idiot, darling," and she soon realises that even he can't help her out of the hole she's dug.

(C) Andy Carrington, 2009.