I thought you might appreciate my shoe-shopping analogy. Some time ago, I went on a blind date—the kind where he sounded perfect on paper but there was just nothing there for me. Of course he really liked me, and it was very awkward. He was a very nice guy, and I felt bad. I wanted to be attracted to him. A friend suggested that it was like trying on a pair of shoes that look really good: Sometimes they just don't fit, so you have to put them back on the rack. There's nothing wrong with them, they're perfectly good shoes, they just don't fit.
It's a lot like dating. I hate shopping; I hate trying on shoes. I want something a little bit stylish, but comfortable and practical—something I can wear all the time. I don't often see anything that I like. When I do see a shoe that I like, I have to try it on, I have to have it, and I want it now.
One of my girlfriends elaborated further. She asked who hasn't bought a pair of shoes they liked even though the shoes didn't fit, then spent a lot of time trying to cram their feet in, sometimes even doing lasting damage to their feet?
Though I appreciate what you're trying to say, I've taken it upon myself to declare a moratorium on women writing about shoes. Wasn't Carrie Bradshaw's retarded shoe fetish bad enough? (Oh, and FYI, there is no way in hell a newspaper sex columnist can afford 800 pairs of Jimmy Choos unless she has a serious trust fund.) Every time I force myself to read the latest chick-lit hit (for research purposes only!), there's inevitably some ninny droning on about her great fondness for footwear. Yawn. Enough already.
It's no secret that women like shoes because no matter how many doughnuts we pack down our piehole, and how fat our asses get as a result, our shoe size never varies. But we're not going to compare shoes to men or shopping to dating. It's a cliché, and we try not to do that around here. OK?
I see that you like to pepper your articles with some rather salty words, like "prick," "horseshit," "bungholes," etc. Your mother must be proud of your "journalistic" skills.
Such language belongs in a man's sweaty locker room, not a newspaper that is read by supposedly decent and intelligent people. If some of "you women" don't get the respect you say you deserve, perhaps vulgar-speaking women and vulgar-writing women (like yourself) have something to do with it.
I'm reminded of a sign I saw in a Manhattan saloon, "Profanity is evidence of a feeble mind . . . attempting to express itself in a forcible manner." Feel free to post that advice on a typewriter . . . the typewriter at your desk would be a good place to start.
Hey, Bill—why don't you fuck the fuck off?!?!
Actually, you'll be relieved to know that my mother is long dead, so she's not around to bear witness to her "vulgar-writing" daughter's salty tongue or lack of "journalistic skills." Perhaps if I still had a mother's guidance, I wouldn't be dropping so many F-bombs and insulting you, the reader, with my deplorable potty mouth. Maybe if I'd grown up with a morally superior role model like you, Bill, then I'd be worthy of your respect. Sniff. But alas, 'twas not to be. I'm just poor white trash from Jersey, so such is my lot. Burp.
What I'm wondering is how a fine, upstanding citizen such as yourself found himself in a "saloon." Why, those places are rumored to be rife with cheap booze and easy women! And in New York City, no less! A town where sodomy runs rampant and the streets are paved with broken dreams. I can only assume that you were there to help save those poor corrupt souls, and for that I thank you. I will take what you said to heart, and I will scrawl your advice across my keyboard. (Pssst, the kids are all using those newfangled computers these days—nobody uses a typewriter anymore! Silly Billy!)
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