Posts Tagged ‘men are from mars women are from venus’

No, they aren’t. Who made me the expert? Your mum. Now I’ve been given some relief over the last year or so during the well-deserved demise of the Fauxhawk of which I hold particular contempt, but suddenly it’s been replaced with bangs and “guyliner”. Yeah, you heard me, Google it, GUYLINER! What’s next? Foundashman? LipsDick? Manscara?

I’m standing next to a guy on the train to work and he had shoes SO pointy, you could dial his boyfriend’s mobile from his pocket with them, which wouldn’t be possible really because his pants were so tight he may as well been wearing leggings. Who the hell comes up with these “fashions” that desperately-seeking-stevens seem to cling desperately to then stand looking around wondering why everyone else isn’t wearing all this rubbish?

Seriously guys, unless you’re gay WHICH IS OK (jesus, that sounded like a tagline) then why would you want to look like a woman, a peacock or a limpcock? What’s a woman? What’s a peacock? What’s a limpcock?

Let me show you:

Woman

Woman

Woman

Peacock

Peackock

Peacock

Peacock

Peacock

Limpcock

Limpcock

Limpcock

Limpcock

Limpcock

I’m not really that mad and don’t like to hate but some guys I see out think they’re god’s gift to women when, really, they’re more like a women’s giftpack. There’s a difference. You buy a woman’s giftpack for women, those creams and scented candles and pretty soaps AREN”T FOR YOU. You aren’t supposed to smell, dress or look like a woman if you want one, so stop acting so smug, spend less on your socks, don’t listen to hairstylists, listen to barbers or better yet, shave it your fucking self. And that DOESN’T mean with a “trimmer”.

Come on guys, you can look sharp, smell good and wear nice clothes but leave out the bangs and the eyeliner, you’ll end up with an artist or a yoga instructor for a missus. Hang on…

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I sit here writing to you waiting for my girl to get ready to go to the Rosemount. I’m sure I speak for all men when I say I am interested in what takes so long to do this. I mean, here is my ritual. I arrive home and tear off my work clothes and throw them onto the floordrobe, then reach over to my non-work shoes, put them on, grab my non-work shirt and slip it on and walk out to the fridge and open a beer. Put beer down, walk back into room, put on pants, return to beer. I’m now ready.

My girl however begins the ritual with the preamble “I’m going to have a quick shower”. This means action stations and that I have atleast 20 minutes of hassle-free tobacco time to myself. During this time in the bathroom it’s like the opening scene of American Psycho, with 70 extra steps, and all of these products have avocado in some form in the active ingredients. They are guaranteed to make any taught, silky smooth, curved, lean, shiny haired woman look taught, silky smooth, curved, lean and with shiny hair.

After this, it’s to the bedroom for yet another pharmacy load of growers-produce infused creams, followed by what resembles a machine with hundreds of tiny tweezers gnashing at her legs. Except it’s not, it’s, well actually, it is a machine with hundreds of tiny tweezers gnashing at her legs. This makes her silky smooth taught legs silkier and smoother.

Now for the fun part, the wardrobe. This is like a men’s floordrobe except it is upright with little “hangers” holding each piece up in a neat line of never been worn dresses that each have a specific purpose in mind when they were first purchased for example, one might be if they were to happen to find a pair of matching yellow shoes and would be invited to a girl named Sally’s engagement on a Tuesday in Spring during a downturn in the Iranian Stock Exchange.

Once the specific outfit is discovered, it’s put on 7 different ways until a suitable configuration is found then it’s make-up time. For me this isn’t too painful as my girl wears little if any, but I have experienced some in the past that have a trowel, a heat gun and three Sherpas on hand during a 3 hour session, then come out looking like Joan Collins after a food fight.Anyway, she’s ready now.