How *Not* To Pick Up Women, Part Duex.

Yes, it's time for another installment of Harlot Fevah's "How *not* to pick up women". I realized that my first post about this subject really shouldn't have been the only one. It's selfish, and you may stand to learn more if it's a continuous topic.

You may be shocked to know, that not all men try to pick up women solely at bars. Oh no, my friends. It happens wherever you look. Wherever there is mingling of the sexes, you will find bold men trying to pick up less-than-eager women. And for some reason, I seem to attract all the crazies in Boston, which is why it's fairly easy for me to make a list of things NOT to do.

This lesson today, will focus on "T" etiquette. For those of you who haven't had the extreme privilege of taking the T, just know that it's a magical world of drunken college kids, the smell of urine, people bumping into you and many "oops-how-did-my-hand-get-there?" type situations.

1.) When a woman has her iPod in and is just kind of staring off into space, this isn't an invitation to touch her in any way. It really isn't. I don't care what you may have to say or ask, it really is just a pain in the ass, and we don't like to put up with it 99% of the time.

Example: I was listening to my music, holding onto the pole for balance when out of nowhere I felt someone touch the top of my hand. Thinking it was just due to the shuffle of people on the train, I payed no mind. When it continued to happen, I turned around to see what I would have first assumed, as a normal-looking man. As soon as I had turned around he asked me: "Where did you get that scar from?" and instead of saying "Well sir who I don't know, I received this scar in 4th grade when I tried to take a strawberry out of a friend's lunchbox and she scratched the top of my hand...forever reminding me that my love of food exceeds friendship.", I decided the best response would be: "Sir, I have no qualms about kicking you in the balls if you touch me again."

2.) If you do happen to break the rules and try to start up a conversation with someone who's clearly not wanting to be talkative, don't persist if said woman is reluctant to conversation or touch. It's really not ok. If you get the shrug off, or threat of ball-kicking, you should consider yourself warned and back away with what dignity you have left.

Example: No more than 3 minutes after Mr. It-Puts-The-Lotion-On-It's-Skin touched my hand, and I made my threat, I felt something brush my hair. Once again, praying to some higher power, I wanted to believe that this was due to the rush of people on the train. But no, I turn to find the same man petting my hair, as if I were a prize pony needing a good combing. My mistake, I didn't realize the equation "touch me again = ball-kick" was so sophisticated, that a simple psycho couldn't understand. And to make matters even worse, this was followed up with a "Do you dye your hair? It's so beautiful." Stop it. Really. It's just too much for my little woman mind to handle. Fortunately, I was able to make my way to the other side of the train before murdering this man. Getting arrested on the T for assault probably won't help me out at all.

3.) Don't tell a woman that you are an ex-marine in the hopes her ears will prick up and her eyes will glimmer, when you clearly are at least 40 pounds overweight. It looks like you may have trouble picking up a suitcase, let alone lifting weights. It's not something to really be proud of, and we're not impressed.

4.) When the train is coming to a stop and the woman you've feebly been trying to talk to goes to get off, don't use the line "You're leaving already? Damn, I didn't get a chance to get your number." That will merit you a hearty laugh in the face, followed by a quick exit into the crowd, never to be seen again.

To sum up: In what world is it ok to touch a stranger? Certainly not mine. In what world is it ok to constantly bug a stranger by touching them and asking retahded questions? Again, not mine. But, maybe you could find women that like this...I certainly haven't come across any recently, or ever, for that matter.

In a phrase, "what about me says approachable?!". Hope you jotted down some notes for use in the future and ladies -- watch out when riding the T...you never know what idiocy may occur.

How *Not* To Pick Up Women.

Granted, being at a townie bar -- you can't expect much of anything...manners, in particular. Actually, the only thing you CAN come to expect, is that 311 or DMB will be played at some point on the jukebox. So, this is partially my fault for being sucked into such a haneous place. But I can't help it, the people-watching is phenomenal. It's wicked addicting.

Guys? I know that there are MILLIONS of things you're dying to know about us ladies. And no worries, I'm here to help out with a few things that may, in return, help you. I know, I know, I'm too nice. Maybe one day in the future, you can return the favor by letting us ladies know why you're such retards sometimes.

But enough of the slander, let's get down to some main points on: How NOT to pick up women.

1.) Don't compliment a woman on something (in my case, tattoos) then, when you think she is out of earshot, follow it up with "She also has a killer rack...but I didn't want to say that to her face cause I think she could kick my ass." .... Just because I'm in the bathroom doesn't mean I'm in the Fortress of Solitude. It's a wooden door. I can hear you. Assholes.

*And yes, I have a nice rack...and YES, I could kick your ass. Just wanted to clear that right up.*

2.) When a group of women are sitting at a table, and the bar is getting crowded...don't take that as an excuse to stand within a 2 inch radius, ass facing us. It's not cool or sexy, it's just fucking gross.

3.) Please, for the love of God, DON'T continuously tell me that Hootie and the Blowfish are the best band that has ever existed on Earth. Sure, I fall victim every once and a while to "Hold My Hand" when there's not a whole lot on the radio, but really? The BEST band ever? I highly doubt that. And the "census" you took at the bar, stating that 80% of the people in there LOVES H & the Blowfish? Bullshit. I found at least 10-15 people who breathlessly said they'd rather kill their mother than listen to it.

3A.) To follow up on #3, and I use this phrase a lot in my life...What about me says 'approachable'?!?!? Seriously, I don't understand why men think it's ok to come up and stand within 1 inch of my face or even worse, touch me. I don't even liked to be touched by people I know most of the time, let alone drunken strangers. Give me my space. Don't grab my hand and serenade me with your Hootie and the Blowfish's "Let her Cry" and attempt to brush the side of my face with your beer (and god knows what else) covered hand...you're asking for a punch in the eye.

4.) Don't spill your beer halfway down my back, then tell me I'm a crazy bitch because I didn't react "nicely". Who the fuck is getting half a beer spilt on them and saying "Thank you sir, may I have another?" For christ sakes, be a gentleman and get me a fucking towel or napkin.

For now, these are the best tips I can offer you. Unless you're looking for a woman who is void of intelligence and has been living under a rock for the past century...then I would suggest doing any of those things. Cheers.

Put on your Sunday best!

That's right, I am going to Church this Sunday.

I'll give you time to get back into your chair and have your breathing return to normal.

Now, I am not a religious person -- I'm sure many of you can attest to that. And I took a religious studies course in college, I know what this Catholicism is all about...But to be perfectly frank, it's bullshit. At least to me it is. I'm sorry if I'm offending anyone who's completely "Gung-Ho!" about Jesus. And this is far more offensive than my blog about Crocs, yet someone still felt the need to comment about how much they hate me because of my views on those hideous things. So I'm sure someone will post about how I'm going to burn in Hell and God will spit on my carcass, and all that jazz. Boo fucking hoo, cry me a river, build me a bridge and get over it.

Believe it or not, I'm going for my Grammy. My little 84-year-old, speaks-with-an-English-accent-even-though-she-grew-up-in-Danvers-Massachusetts, Grammy. She goes to Mass god only knows how many times during the week. I remember when I was a kid, whenever we spent the weekend at my Grammy's house, she would make us go to church. At the time, I had no idea what was going on, I was just grateful for the fact that she kept candy in her purse which she would continuously feed to me throughout the Mass so I would shut up. Clearly, none of what was actually going on during Mass sunk into my brain, but it was a nice effort. Also, I ended up going to the local Unitarian church in my hometown with my former friend, where they would make us sit in a circle and have us pass a little candle and "share our feelings". Excuse me? This was like another planet to me. Even at the age of 12, I wasn't falling for that shit. Take your little candle, and your crunchy granola, and your "I love the world" attitude and get the fuck out of my face.

To be perfectly honest, I can't remember the last time I've set foot in an actual church. The last time I was around anything spiritual was at my Uncle Danny's burial, and even then, the Priest who was giving the reading looked at me and knew that I didn't belong there. Part of that was because of all the visible tattoos...the other, the fact that while everyone was reciting "Our Father", I was staring at the group of geese who happened to be much more interesting at the time. Suppressing the urge to honk during that solemn time was one of the best challenges I've ever had.

But anyways, the reason I'm going to church for my Grammy, is that she's winning an award. The first of it's kind apparently, for doing good deeds and being awesome in general. But the best part about all this, is the fact that it's being presented to her by...the fucking Cardinal. Yup. Cardinal Sean P. O' Malley will be presenting my Grammy this award. And it's not it's own ceremony...it is during the Sunday Mass. I don't know exactly why I find this so humorous...but I totally do. It just seems ironic that I've loathed the Catholic church for YEARS, and now the one fucking time I'm going...the damn Cardinal will be there. I keep having this feeling that I'm going to set one foot in this church in South Boston and burn right there on site. I also have to think about what I'm going to wear. At first, I wanted to wear a cute little black dress, with fishnets and my high heels. If I'm going to go to church and not fit in, why not go all the way with it! But after some careful consideration...and my father's other worldly advice, I've decided I should probably cover up the tattoos and wear something...more tasteful. Gross.

So if you hear about some crazy, ranting, lunatic here in Boston this Sunday, it's only me -- starting a riot at church. No big deal. LONG LIVE THE GAYS!

Good. Morning.

My father's house is old. Not like "That's awesome that you have an olive green fridge from the 70s" old. I'm talking like 1700-1800's old. The kind of old where a lot of the house's insulation is still in the form of horse-hair. Well, this is an open invitation to some of the wonderful wildlife that inhabits North Andover. Mainly, the North American Grey Squirrel.

Now, my father has tried numerous way of ousting these annoying little beasts, but nothing seems to work.

Led Zeppelin at warp 10 volume in the attic from our old 50lb 80s boom box? Nothing. Guess they aren't really into taking that Stairway to Heaven.

That machine that emits a high-pitch frequency that pets and humans can't hear, but little critters will and vacate the premises shortly after? Not so much. They figured out that if you chew through the wires, it will shut off.

I won't even get into the "mothball" stage. Gross.

So, now that the weather is getting colder, the small family of squirrels have decided to pack it on in, into our house. And it seems, that their favorite thing to do, is to create little tunnels through the walls...creating what I can only assume, is a mini-rendition of the movie The Labyrinth. I bet there's even one squirrel with spandex pants, a flowing white shirt and hair to die for. Now all of this would be ok...if it weren't for the fact that they're next step in the "Big Dig" was in my room.

I can usually sleep through most things. I will soon be sleeping next to a man who could wake the dead with his snoring...and if I get a head start on him, I can sleep through it. So I didn't wake up to the sound of a squirrel scratching its way through my walls. I did however, wake up to the sound of things being knocked off my bureau. Thankfully, my cat Chainsaw felt the need to protect me (or so I thought), so she had taken the liberty of vaulting off the day bed, onto my bureau in the corner. What she didn't realize, is that the surface of my bureau is slippery. So after sliding into a few items and knocking them off, she stabled herself and continued to stare in the direction of the faint scratching.

I assumed that she would hang out there for a while, so I just laid back down. After about a minute or so, I heard some scratching behind my head. So there was not only 1 annoying rat...but 2 in my fucking walls. Chainsaw, with the awesome hearing she possesses, realized this and proceeded to jump off the bureau, run across the room, jump on my bed and then (add insult to injury) decided to use my chest/rib cage as a human trampoline to get to the next scratching sound.

So thanks, Chainsaw. Thanks for half knocking the wind out of me and waking me up to such a glorious Veteran's Day. It was like I got my own parade of idiocy. I don't know exactly what in your tiny brain made you think you could actually GET to the squirrels, but it was a nice effort regardless.

Oy.

Check The Date.

It's November 6th, assholes.

Who the fuck said it was ok to start playing Christmas music on 2 of my favorite radio stations?! I don't even understand how it's possible. I was just driving to work, minding my own business, when I turn to WROR, 105.7 and I hear Burl Ives' rendition of "Holly Jolly Christmas". Go fuck yourselves 105.7. So then, I switch the channel to WODS 103.3 (Oldies, for those of you who would like to mock) and I hear Elvis' "Blue Christmas". I literally almost drove my car into the ditch in the median of 93. I would rather have gotten into a horrible disfiguring car wreck than come to terms with the fact that Christmas music was already being played 24 hours a day on 2 radio stations. And the scarier thing? More stations will follow suit pretty soon. Soon, all I'll have to listen to is the pathetic thing I call a "cd collection" (consisting of a few Disney cds and 3 cds Deck-Her has made for me in the past 3 years. Because nothing quiet says class as driving 90mph singing "Hakuna Matata" or Usher's "Yeah").

Now, I've come to accept the fact that Christmas candy and decorations are displayed at malls and convenience stores around the country in about mid-September. And I'm somewhat ok with that. I just walk on by pretending like it's not happening. Denial may just be a river in Egypt for me. But just because these stores are insane, shouldn't mean that I should have to be forced into listening to "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree" and "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" and all that bullshit 2 FUCKING MONTHS before the actual holiday. It's just plain torture.

So I'll apologize to the Christmas lovers out there (ahem cough cough Miss Mary Smack wheeze cough) because I know some people are excited to listen to these songs and get in the spirit of the holidays and all that shit. But for me, I plan on finishing my fucking Halloween candy, congratulating my father for finding a gravy boat to use at Thanksgiving that keeps the gravy warm with a tea light that sits underneath it and listening to Emerson's 88.9 independent radio on my way to work, so I don't go postal this year. Or at least...not too early.

New & Improved Massacre Stats

Ok, so as some of you may have noticed, last years Regionals I wrote a blog in regards to Eastern Regionals in OHIOOOOOOOO. I only felt it was fair to update my blog with newer stats. I will start by copying and pasting some of the same questions from last year with updated answers...

*Number of games played: 4

*Amount of time it took for our room to look like a bomb went off: About 5 minutes, seeing as there was no dresser to put clothes in, only kitchen cabinets.

*Number of Jello shots consumed in 1 evening: NONE! We had no time between games to go out drinking (even though the damn hotel offered FREE BEER!!)

*Number of times Claire D. Way pushed Fevah out of her chair: NONE! Holy crap, that doesn't seem right now that I look back...

*Number of times the Massacre actually went out into the light of day: This time, we actually had to go outside to get to the venue...so many -- but it was well worth it

*Amazing quotes from QSand: STILL too many to count

*Number of times hotel staff were told off by Fevah: 0, the hotel staff were AMAZING!! Especially the lady who shuttled us to the grocery store and waited in the parking lot while we ran around like it was Supermarket Sweep. They even turned a blind eye as Buse and I brought glass into the pool/hot tub area. Big no no.

*Number of times Lady E was worn: THANK GOD, STILL ZERO!

*Fried food consumed: I can't even begin to tell you how many fried cheese curds our team as a whole ate that weekend. Soooo good. Other than that, we had some minor issues finding regular food in the immediate area.... ("Is this just fucking tomato paste? I don't even care, I'm eating it with a fork...")

Now, let's add some NEW stats, shall we?

*Number of times we watched the Lawrence Welk Show skit on SNL: Roughly? 30. With my by myself!

*Number of times we referenced that SNL skit during the weekend?: 358,675,579,478 times.

*Number of times the phrase "This room looks like diarrhea." was said: 4

*Number of times we said "OHIOOOOOO", even though we were in Madison: approximately 68

*Number of times Philzie asked our room who was playing "Frankie Crack Corn" when in reality, it was a Bach cell phone ring: 1

*Voices lost from screaming ALL weekend: 15 team members, 2 managers, 10 family members/friends/Sig. O's, and whoever the fuck was in the Coliseum while we played any of our games. Hells yeah.

*Bruises on Breaker from telling us to call off the jam: 1 on each hip.

*Snacks given away to random strangers by Q, even though I drunkly wanted those fucking cheetos: a few bags.

*Strip clubs visited: 1...VISIONS! Thank god for amateur night.

*Drunken phone messages from Fevah to Spite: 1, and there only needed to be one.

*Number of awk interviews done by me and Claire: 1

*Number of times Buse used the "awkward as an upsidedown turtle" gesture while on the track: 1

*Drunken conversations with Racer McChase-Her about our love for the phrase "JK JK, BUT NOT JK, OK A LITTLE JK.": 1

*Injuries sustained by Feevs on a toilet paper dispenser in the bathroom of the strip club: 1 cut shoulder. NBD.

*Variety of songs made up by Buse/Claire/Feevs & Q with the words "Tootie Tinwhistle" involved: at least 5

Once again, I know there are SO many things I'm forgetting and maybe I'll continue adding on if I have the chance. Madison was fucking incredible, and I've never been prouder of being a part of the Massacre. Sadly, that tourney did mark my last games with the team and I can only DREAM that I will have something that awesome if I start to play with ACDG.

I will say, that it was definitely NOT the same without my Twinsie...she was sorely missed by our whole team, but mostly me! Thank god Poppa Feevs was there to deal with my crazy. I HEART YOU BOSTON!!!!

And isn't it ironic.

I meant to write about this last week but totally spaced.

As I was driving into work, I saw a giant black Escalade with 2 bumper stickers on the back:

1.) A McCain/Palin supporter sticker

2.) A Life is Good sticker. You know the one I'm talking about...the creepy smiling guy with hair that oddly looks like a fucking beret.

Does anyone else but me find that to be completely hypocritical?...or am I just so far into my own little fucked up world, that it's just me. How...HOW is it possible that those 2 things could EVER be on the same plane of existence?! I'll answer you -- they don't. The idea that life could ever be good with those fucktards in office is beyond belief. It's disturbing enough that John McCain actually believes that Palin could be the President if something should happen (please see: John McCain's interview on 60 Minutes for that gem), but what makes things even more unfathomable:

Karl fucking Rove doesn't think Palin's a suitable candidate.

WHAT.

You've got to be kidding me. Honestly, someone please take a pen and jab it repeatedly into my eardrums. This just isn't funny anymore. When Karl idiot-stick Rove thinks someone is a bad egg...we're fucked.

And so ends my rant on this for now, but the idea that this driver truly believes that he can have these bumper stickers living side-by-side makes me think that we should really worry about this election. No one is safe. Happy Monday!