The theory of relative fanboy architecture.
It is therefore with great solemnity that we hand down the majority opinion in the case of Domino’s v. That One Greek Place Over on N Street.
There are meritorious arguments for both proposals. Pizza, as some members of the Court have contended, is a lunch cuisine with deep foundations in the history of the United States Supreme Court’s break room kitchenette. Further, our unanimous opinion in Domino’s v. Sbarro, 540 U.S. 891 (2003), stands for the proposition that Domino’s never skimps on the toppings, and that their Cinna Stix are pretty good too, especially if you eat them when they’re still warm.
Lunch - and, you know, justice - are currently being served.
I’m considering wallpapering my apartment with these Japanese Fart Scrolls.
Well, this is fucking brilliant.
That fucking shell necklace casually dangling from Prince Eric’s finger. Priceless.
2011 was possibly the most, um, interesting dating year I’ve had since I started dating*. And I’ve been dating for 50% of my lifetime at this point, so that’s saying a lot. Thankfully, I’m a writer who can aggregate the sum total of this year’s romantic victories and missteps in a future award-winning-high-grossing comedic screenplay.
In any case, based on some of my experiences this year, I totally commiserate with the girl in New York who received this ungodly email from a stalkery fella with whom she apparently went on “ONE HORRIBLE” date.
Since this guy is clearly psychotic, I’ve decided to post some of his comments and then analyze them from a lady’s perspective.
I’m disappointed in you. I’m disappointed that I haven’t gotten a response to my voicemail and text messages.
Analysis: She didn’t respond to you because you’re a psychotic stalker. She might post this email online as retribution for your craycray.
I assume that you no longer want to go out with me. (If you do want to go out with me, then you should let me know.) I suggest that you make a sincere apology to me for giving me mixed signals. I feel led on by you.
Things that happened during our date include, but are not limited to, the following:
-You played with your hair a lot. A woman playing with her hair is a common sign of flirtation. You can even do a google search on it. When a woman plays with her hair, she is preening. I’ve never had a date where a woman played with her hair as much as you did. In addition, it didn’t look like you were playing with your hair out of nervousness.
-We had lots of eye contact during our date. On a per-minute basis, I’ve never had as much eye contact during a date as I did with you.
-You said, “It was nice to meet you.” at the end of our date. A woman could say this statement as a way to show that she isn’t interested in seeing a man again or she could mean what she said—that it was nice to meet you. The statement, by itself, is inconclusive.
-We had a nice conversation over dinner. I don’t think I’m being delusional in saying this statement.
Analysis: Wow, kids. So much going on here. My soul really wants this email to be a parody from The Onion, but after having received some bizarro emails myself, I will go ahead and vouch, on behalf of this girl, for authenticity.
#1: You assume correctly! This is a great place to stop/delete this email while you’re ahead.
#2: Personally, I play with my hair when I’m bored or I think it doesn’t look good. I play with my hair, come to think of it, constantly. Because I have a lot of fucking hair. And it gets in the way all the time - whether curly or straight. It’s a lot to handle, really. However, this has no bearing on whether I want to be in a serious relationship with you. It just means I have a lot of fucking hair.
#3: I’m guessing this girl had eye contact with you for less than 30 seconds total on this date, but, as you seem to have a social disorder or two, I can see how, from your perspective, this is more eye contact than you’ve ever received on a date before.
#4: “It was nice to meet you” and “I had a nice time” are polite placeholders for “I can’t wait to get the fuck in my car and call my best friend and tell her about how horrific this date was.” Fellas, believe me, take the nice version.
It would be very convenient for you to date me because we have the same interests. We already go to classical music performances by ourselves. If we go to classical music performances together, it wouldn’t take any significant additional time on your part. According to the internet, you’re 33 or 32, so, at least from my point of view, we’re a good match in terms of age. I could name more things that we have in common, but I’ll stop here. I don’t understand why you apparently don’t want to go out with me again. We have numerous things in common. I assume that you find me physically attractive. If you didn’t find me physically attractive, then it would have been irrational for you to go out with me in the first place. After all, our first date was not a blind date. You already knew what I looked like before our date.
Analysis: Blatant admission of stalking aside, this is a text rich in egotism, delusion, self-aggrandizement and utter assholeness. Every statement is about how going out with this lady would be convenient and beneficial to him, and yet, at no point does he stop, look at himself and say, “holy fuckballs…I sound a little crazy. Perhaps this is why she’s not into me!”
You, sir, are the definition of a red flag.
And Lauren, best wishes for a better year of dating in 2012.
*This statement also includes the date I had during grad school when I dared my date to eat 101 popcorn shrimp (which he later puked up) because earlier in the date, when I had asked him what his Death Row Last Meal would be, he said “101 Popcorn Shrimp” (And what was on special when we went to get late night coffee at the end of the date? Yes, popcorn shrimp. How could I not?). Puke aside, it was actually a really fun date. But, you know, interesting.
In Spring of 2002, I sent my best friend a series of extremely cracked out emails during finals. Because she loves me, she forwarded them to me this week.
INT. BASEMENT COMPUTER LAB - MOFFIT UNDERGRAD LIBRARY - 9:23 am
HAYLEY (20), is frantically writing a final project for her Hitchcock class. During a brief break, she writes the following email, the fifth in this multi-hour paper-writing process, to her best friend who is living abroad.
Sent: Thursday, May 16, 2002 9:24 AM
Subject: 9:23 am…done.
Title: ”Oh, We’re Never Gonna Survive Unless We Get A Little Crazy, Or: Who The Hell Wants To Live In Wine Country Anyways? I Don’t, Or:The American Small Town: The Milieu for Massacre In Alfred Hitchcock’s Shadow of a Doubt and The Birds”
# of men that have tried to pick me since 4am - 2
favorite pick up line: ”Hey, didn’t I meet you at Henry’s two years ago? You work with children right, but your hair was short and blond then, right?”
number of meals I’ve eaten: 0
number of computers eaten: 0
number of times drug-seeking friend has interupted me to discuss possible drug use as a way to help finals stress: 5
times I’ve changed in the last 24 hours - none
screw you guys, i’m going home
***It’s a pity to shoot the pianist when the piano is out oftune.
Analysis: Yes, that was ACTUALLY the title of my paper. That was my thing in college. Since I was an English major, my life revolved around papers; I was constantly holed up reading 5 books per week, writing response papers, analyses, term papers, blah blah blah. Since I was writing all the time, I figured I’d fuck around with readers and professors by humoring them with multiple titles for even the smallest paper, much to the massive annoyance of my Senior Thesis advisor, who pleaded with me to keep my piece on Faulkner and the use of negative space in American Beauty brief. However, in a classic tribute to Faulkner, my paper’s title was 17 lines long, written in stream of consciousness, and studded with parentheticals.
This is because I try to be funny.
Also, I am a mega-nerd.
I don’t think anyone anticipates their fan base to be overrun by the international recreational orthopedics community. But in today’s digital world, “a view is a view,” even if it’s a German cast fetishist jerking off to a vlog about me breaking my foot. And if anyone in Hollywood can capitalize on attention from subversive anonymous masturbating fetishists, I’d rather it be me than Whitney Cummings, so I’ll take what I can get.