Is this racist? Are gays not allowed to have preferences?


Settle down, class.

As we continue our section on “Is it racist?”, we’re going to watch a short video.

And discuss it afterward.

(Suzanne, can you get the lights please? Thank you , dear…)

First, I have trouble believing anyone would turn this guy down.

However, we do like what we like.

Does it make me discriminatory that I’ve generally “gone for” dark haired dudes over gingers or blondies? Mayhaps. But I don’t feel like it’s a social cancer inducing kinda proclivity. It’s dating. Dynamics happening intimately in your private life aren’t anyone else’s business. Your baby making equipment doesn’t have to be an equal opportunity employer. In fact, I’ve actually come to find that having (and sticking to) a “type” is one of those things that just ends up affecting the picker more adversely than the pickee.

For example, note that I said above, “we like what we like – not who.”

This is and has been the foundation for my whole problem in the past. I’ve missed out, holding out for a “what” because the features it describes generally supplement some ideal I’ve got in my mind – even if I don’t wanna believe that about myself. So much so that, in the past, my mind would do a shut-down thing when approached by someone who didn’t fit my pre-constructed preference section in my mind. (Awful, yes, I know). When I became more open-minded, I didn’t necessarily start dating every type there is. But what I did do was start making my sexual preferences a non-priority. I try tabling the whole “Can I see myself sleeping with you?” at the outset (I said “try”). The benefit of this is even the mere thought of hooking up in the back seat – takes a back seat… till we really meet. And I mean meet the actual person – versus some fetishist or Platonic idea I’ve had dreamed up since before you were brave enough to come say hi. This means that I listen critically to what you say, absorb it, respond, and – above all – get over myself enough to do any of those first three things. It’s horribly hard for someone like me who’s constantly battling between multiple solipsistic intrinsic voices (“Does this hat look dumb?” and “Of course it doesn’t. I look AMAZING.”)

But I try. ’cause you’re right, Sassy gay friend.

When I make a little effort at empathy, the whole world opens up.

To a different kinda love-seeking. Campy, I know, but hear me out.

Let me ask you this: how hard would it be to kindly say, “I hope you don’t think I’m leading you on. I don’t want to date you right now, but I’m very interested about this amazing trip to Europe that you’re telling me about which I’m sure isn’t even slightly embellished”? This (or something less passive aggressive) is the perfect go-to if you’re having a conversation and the other person’s reading your body language all wrong or starts getting handsy. The difference between this and the typical type of “friend-zoning” is that I’m not collecting you now to use later. I am your friend if we remain friends. I am interested in you as a human being. I’ll call and ask you how you are (text actually, probz). I’ll help you move if you get evicted. I’ll give you a ride if your car craps out. Interested in my friendship? Act now! Place your order! (Bump-uglies not included.)

And this open mindedness is my segue to the yes-but part of this message:

Compassionately rejecting others.

Or as my e-guru says, “Saying no with love.”

(See, my homo-homies? Your queen’s kind. Be like the queen.)

You have a right to say no, as I’ve mentioned. But if you’re not in the market for new friends, there’s a better way than the above. All of us can work on this. I feel like we owe it to ourselves as a species to improve the quality of the language capacity we worked so hard to evolve. And by that I mean: have a little effing couth when you’re turning down someone who grew a big enough sac to come chat you up.

Honesty and consideration are not mutually exclusive. Blunt does not equal sincerity. When the dude in the video gets shut down, it’s to the tune of something like, “I don’t date black guys.” This is the kind of thing you might say in the privacy of your head, along with “Did you gain weight, fat bitch?” or “I rubbed one out before I got here so I wouldn’t go home with a troll like you on accident.” Much better, I suppose, could be anything from, “Thank you! I’m flattered! But I’m going to have to say no. You’re wonderful, though.” (Who needs a reason – espesh if you’re being nice about it?) to the thing mentioned above: “No thanks, but you’re cool – come have coffee/a drink/see a gig with my friends and me sometime”.

I don’t care who you date. And you probably don’t care if I do care. Your personal prefs about where you park your peen aren’t any of my business. But as a suggestion: gays, un-gays, furry lovers, bisexual centaurs, and so on could all stand to be a bit more considerate when turning folks away from the red ropes lining our love clubs. No need to butthurt someone just ‘cause you don’t want them to hurt your butt later at home. Thus, my vote is this: sexual pref based rejection’s not racist, obviously. But depending on how you deliver it, it can make people feel pretty badly about themselves – be it about their skin’s shade, hair’s color, their height, or whatever else folks can’t change and shouldn’t have to.

So, please:

Do your thing – but be kind and remember that you don’t get a compassion pass upon exiting the closet.

You can totes keep the sass sans acting like an ass.

5 ways could be useful


I’m late to the party, apparently, but I’ve just found

And it’s so brilliant in its god-awulness that my day’s been made before I’ve even finished my second cup of coffee. The premise is essentially this: You’ve got a friend who can’t find a lover on their own – or you’re just a hose nose who can’t mindaya damn business, so you go on this site and make a dating profile for them at a price of your choosing to be collected when some rando takes the date – presumably unbeknownst to your bought buddy. Hopefully it’s unbeknownst. ‘cause it’s way worse if you do know, like some scared fifth grader getting your gossipy go-between friend to pass notes and messages to that hot piece of tail in the back of the class who you know is going to play for the NFL in twenty years. (Hi, Ahmad Brooks…. We’ll always have Mrs. Martin’s class…) Except you can’t see that they’re hot. Or even not a serial killer.

But just for kicks, let’s pretend to look at this site seriously:

Did they mix up the price offering of the entrepreneur sitting in Ron Burgundy’s study with that middle dude? What’s going on here? Before judging, I read middle dude’s profile – just to make sure he wasn’t some heir to the Walmart Dynasty or something:

“I am a balanced combination of sensitivity, intelligence,humor, sensuality and attractiveness, with a passionate personality. I am more interested in the mind, heart and spirit of a person and our compatibility more than anything else. But still, there is a physical element there, so we must find each other attractive in all senses not only physical but also mental and emotional. I love to travel and when I do, I like to learn about people’s values and lifestyles, as well as learn about their music, art, architecture, and other aspects of their particular culture. The importance of good communication: it has been said, and I firmly believe, that good communication, or the lack of it, is the reason relationships, and many other things in life, succeed or fail. I have accomplished many things in life, not only professionally”


I’ve read this three point five times now, and I still can’t seem to find the part about your spooge holding a fountain of youth serum. $20 grand? Really? Did your mother you still live with post this for you? But who knows. As I’m still minus the pro-baller I’ve known since fifth grade (possibly more so because I hate football), you can’t listen to my advice on more old school wooing tactics. Because even if this site does fail to unite soulmates via cyberspace (do people still use that word? I feel like nobody uses that word anymore…), I can see at least a few purposes this thing could serve.

For example:


You’re in on it together with someone. The two of you have profiles up and you split the money, as each of you take turns taking one for the team. (Bonus: if you’re Lucy doing this with your Ricky, it’ll make you both closer to each other because you’re doing something sneaky together. It’s like porking outdoors on a rooftop, wondering when you’ll get caught. Plus, it’ll also make the other person appreciate what they have because a third party desires them. People always cling tighter to coveted stuff.)


You post it yourself. And then, obviously, take the money. And keep telling yourself you’re someone who’d never genuinely sell themselves sexually for a date! Because this isn’t even in the same league as that. Right? Right?! (You could really make a living out of this if you’re hot enough. Or use a fake picture. Or have no soul.)


(Aw, honey. Don’t sell yourself short! I bet you’re far better at whining to a tune.)

It doesn’t matter who puts you online. If someone slaps your image on a hookup site with a profile, suddenly you feel like a celeb sammiched between alien births and talking dog stories in the National Enquirer. I mean, if I’m a company trying to hire you, all it takes is a reverse search on your Facebook profile pic– and boom. “We’re sorry to inform you – you’re too weird in your off-time to get paid by us on your on-time.” #sorrynotsorry

(Bonus points if their Facebook relationship status is now paired with a heart icon, and then you anonymously send this link to their new lover: “I dunno who did this. I mean I’m sure it’s some friend who doesn’t know you’re dating yet – but I thought you should know-…Oh, you’ve been married two years now? Yeesh… Well don’t shoot the messenger. Definitely wasn’t me who did it. Definitely.)


This is what ten percent of the testimonial section would look like if it were honest:

“So, I’d just gotten home after years of serving with the best buddies a guy could ever have – and I was emotionally exhausted. Mostly because I had to do one of those mandatory neighborhood informative rounds right away “Hi, I’m Bob. Yes, I’ve put my penis in someone who asked me not to. Yes, I’m living next door now.” You know, the usual routi-…Oh, wait, did you think I mean “serving” as in war?

Anyhow, needless to say, I needed to let off a little steam. So, I found And I posted a snap of some dude who looks like a lost Kennedy, all GQ’d up with a Hamptons backdrop. Then, she showed up for the date – all pretty and perfumey, dainty and heel clad. Finally, after solo wine glass number five – when she realized she was being stood up – she left. In her disheartened and not-thinking-straight state, it was perfect for me! She totally didn’t notice me follow her home. Bonus? I spent the money I got out of it on bleach when I needed to get her blood, hair, and Chanel No.5 outta my trunk the next week!”


Feeling ugly? Or fat? Is no one treating you like a princess today?

Why not get all gussied up, take a snap, and slap it on here with the going rate for a hottie whose league you think you’re in most days? And wait for the offers to roll in? Don’t take the date or the money, mind you. This is all about the internal spiritual practice of raising your self-confidence based on your appearance alone – ya know – the only thing that matters. So just catalog those offers and refer back to them the next time you’re sat home in sweats, too lazy to leave, and feeling like a bridge dwelling troll. (Just don’t troll yourself – by posting pics from your twenties and tweaking the money listing. If no offers roll in, you may wanna do a bit of f’real soul (and gym and beauty parlor) searching.

It’s a good thing I’m too self-involved to actually apply any of my genius ideas.

But, please – feel free to borrow any of mine.

And then send me your IRL anecdotes on how they played out.

Let’s redo this fat suit Tinder experiment (video).


Okay, I don’t want to bias you.

So first, you watch these two Tinder-meetup-in-a-fat-suit social experiments. And then read my take.

Here’s the chick version:

And now, the dude:

I feel like the experiments weren’t terribly equal.

They made the dude hate kids, pups, and he was ironically picky about the fitness level of his chicks. Already he’s a douchey hypocrite with borderline sociopathy (Hate babies? Fine. But what kinda monster hates dogs?) that’s redeemable only in the cute one-twirl dance move, adventurous nature, and thumb war game he got them to play. The chick on the other hand? A sweetie who looks like she feasts on a lotta sweets. But maybe that was the point. The big girl was comparatively created to be fun and upbeat – and the majority of the guys still left her. The fat guy, contrarily, gave out the same brand of visual misinformation and the women still made farmer’s market dates with him and even kissed him before parting ways.

Could it be ulterior motive that’s the driving force here? Because for the guys who showed up, the plan to have a sexual fantasy ultimately fulfilled was annihilated when they got more woman than that for which they’d bargained. Dudes didn’t even sit down – and why would they? This is an audition for Sex-Factor, not Wifey-Idol. We didn’t meet on This is Tinder.

So, that should’ve been the same expectation the chicks had.

But, alas, the evidence doesn’t lie.

These ladies were apparently willing to settle for this corpulent kinda unlikeable character who also false-advertised. Is that because they were nice? Or because he wasn’t (lotsa chicks are like cats – they want to be loved, petted, and adored the moment you stop offering it)? Or was it because (despite having knowingly met them on fleeting-meetup media) they were thinking of tucking him way in the back corner “in case I don’t have any prospects 40 years from now and don’t wanna die alone” part of the kitchen cupboard? Or even just that friend-zone member who’ll tell you you’re pretty and everyone else sucks? Part of me feels like that was the whole point of this social experiment – to demonstrate the biology disparity between men and women with respect to casual encounters. That dudes carry out the mission from its inception and abandon it when the parameters of said directive change – while women are just kinda bound to their blueprints for bookmarking potential long-term providers. And they’re thus willing to build a whole long-term dynamic with deception at its foundation – even though this was only ever meant to be a 15 minute fling at the Ramada across the street.

As ever, the femi-nazi within wants to finger wag and say “nuh-uuuhh”.

But, I guess I can’t, can I? Seeing as I came to this conclusion myself and all?

Still, they’d do a better job at convincing everyone else if they’d designed the experiment more equally.

I was left wondering – why did they have to go out of their way to make the dude seem douchey? If he was nicer, the chicks might have gotten bored like over-petted housecats and wandered off like the dudes did. I wanna know what’d happen if they redid this experiment with both personalities acting generally pleasant. And what happens when both genders come “lean” – about their not being actually fat.

But even more than that, I wanna know: how did zero of these trolled folk not recognize this was a fat suit? These people are arguably more dim-witted than they are superficial. So, in this next social experiment I’ve outlined, I also want to know is how many people could figure out you’re even wearing a terribly applied fat suit that bends and crinkles when you profile like no human tissue naturally does? Fat’s not that vulnerable to gravity. Nobody’s upper face stays that slim while the rest of their adipose tissue cascades downward like geriatric testicles. Let’s get on this experiment ASAP.

’cause I don’t know how to Tinder, so this is how I get my kicks now.

Taylor Swift: The musical masochist.


Taylor Swift gets a lot of hate for how her “girl next door” image allows her to date a new guy every night, without being called what the rest of us would. But, I’ve got some serious admiration for the girl, which can be summed up by an AshleyOriginal meme I was rather surprised nobody else has come up with yet:


I mean, if you go down the list of TS songs, they’re mostly about guys she’s dated- most of whom are known douchebags, like John Mayer. So, time and time again, she’ll deliberately seek out these types, and people will say, “Why would you date him when you know he’s bad news?!”

Why, you ask? Think about her net worth. The bitch has at least roughly $35 million simply following the advice her mommy, daddy, schoolteachers, (and everyone else who enjoys employing popular sentences that end in prepositional phrases) probably told her when she was little: “Stick to what you’re good at!” And let’s face it, the girl is good at earning money by making music out of masochism.

That’s not dating, that’s called research.

And as for you, Eminem:


It’s a really good idea, in theory. I get it. Nothing rhymes with orange. But, let’s face it: It really wouldn’t be that hard. I mean, there’s no rule that says you have to put the color at the end of the sentence. But, for kicks? Challenge accepted, I say. I’ll go for it, using Eminem’s own technique of rhyming words that only sound “kind of like” other words (which is at least creative and still way better than the “Minaj Method”: AKA rhyming words with… well… themselves).

Anyway, here we go:
♪ ♫

Screw your obsession with oranges,
And you might rap, but you’re still white,
So take all of your four inches
out of here and when you leave tonight:
Don’t let it get caught in my door’s hinges.
♪ ♫

Hmmm… that came out sounding like a rap version of a Swift song. Sounds like a great gimmick; maybe I should recreate myself into a musical synthesis of both Eminem and Taylor Swift and one up them both. That’s right. I henceforth refuse to answer to anything other than my new emcee name: “Tellin’em”.