I sat watching a Cary Grant film the other day. And, as is true with most Cary Grant films, he portrayed the epitome of an eligible bachelor. He wore dark, well-tailored suits—always with a jaunty tie, drank martinis—always after work, had the most modern furniture (although a blonde coffee table and console TV might not seem modern today, by Cary Grant’s standards they were right on the money). Cary also employed an elderly, slightly curmudgeoned maid with just enough wit to keep him in line, wore two piece pajamas to bed at night, and smoked a pipe with such sex appeal that I actually got moist. Man, he had it going on, y’know? So, what I want to know is where these bachelors are now?
I’ve been dating pretty much since 2007. And although this is in no way intended to sluttify myself, I’ve dated all shapes and sizes of bachelors. I say this only to qualify myself in the matters of bachelors and their lifestyles. I’ve dated fat men, skinny men, tall men, and short men, men with college degrees and men with GED’s. I’ve dated men who played soccer nationally and men who—well—just played. I’ve dated men I’ve liked, lusted, and—currently—love. But I ain’t ever dated a bachelor who didn’t live like they were not only members but Presidents of Phi Delta Disgusting.
Unlike Cary, these bachelors dress haphazardly—preferring to choose dirty clothes from the hamper rather than a suit and tie from a hanger. They have a strange habit of sporting the newest athletic shoes—Adidas, Nike, Converse—always name brands-- and paring them with the free t-shirt they scored last week at the radio-thon that reads “WFRT—we blow the others away.” Today’s bachelor dresses based on a simple olfactory examination—if it doesn’t burn their nose hair when they sniff it, they think they can wear it. And can anyone tell me why shoe-tying is suddenly optional?
The bachelor’s I’ve dated have never drunk or even ordered a martini. They like Red Bull, coffee, or old coca-cola they’ve found under the front seat of the car. They serve ketchup in tiny packets, drink from jelly glasses, and possess a plethora of steak knives they’ve stolen from various steak houses. They don’t cook at home—as a rule—unless it’s like canned—and they own more take-out menus than underwear. Mis-matched plates, cups, 2 forks and 1 frying pan have always been considered the standard.
Today’s bachelor has furniture—if you call one lazy boy recliner and a blue tote for an end table a living room set. They sleep in apartments that look like frat houses, bedrooms that look like Oscar Madison threw up, and beds that look eerily like they’ve seen more action than Arnold, Sly, and Bruce Willis combined. They never possess salt and pepper shakers, vacuum cleaners, or, it seems, the common sense to desire these items. There is no hired maid—and I’m pretty sure they simply rely on the girl current relationship to serve in that capacity—killing two birds with one stone and all. They control the TV if you please, and even if you don’t, and always while they play Double Down on the computer. They believe we love to see them naked—anywhere and anytime—their penises flopping lazily from side-to-side while they explain the virtues of Chip Coffey and Paranormal Activities to you, and aren’t opposed to facing the world skivvy-less and in flip flops. They burp a lot; gag a lot—seemingly having a never-ending supply of hair balls caught in their throat—and fart.
Ah yes, the bachelor fart. Tell me why? Why? Why does a man need to be married or in a relationship and harassed into withholding intentional farts? I simply do not get it. And what’s with the smile that seems to accompany all of them? It’s not funny….it’s not funny at all. They lift their legs to fart, point their asses at you to fart, bend slightly at the waist and push to fart, and regale you with stories of farts. So very unCary Grant like, don’t you think?
I want to go back…if only for a day. I want the Cary Grant sort of bachelor to swoon over me and dance with me and have no intentions of sleeping with me at the end of the night. Which inevitably leads me to believe, perhaps those bachelors were gay??
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
I Bet Cary Grant Didn't Have Skid Marks
I sat watching a Cary Grant film the other day. And, as is true with most Cary Grant films, he portrayed the epitome of an eligible bachelor. He wore dark, well-tailored suits—always with a jaunty tie, drank martinis—always after work, had the most modern furniture (although a blonde coffee table and console TV might not seem modern today, by Cary Grant’s standards they were right on the money). Cary also employed an elderly, slightly curmudgeoned maid with just enough wit to keep him in line, wore two piece pajamas to bed at night, and smoked a pipe with such sex appeal that I actually got moist. Man, he had it going on, y’know? So, what I want to know is where these bachelors are now?
I’ve been dating pretty much since 2007. And although this is in no way intended to sluttify myself, I’ve dated all shapes and sizes of bachelors. I say this only to qualify myself in the matters of bachelors and their lifestyles. I’ve dated fat men, skinny men, tall men, and short men, men with college degrees and men with GED’s. I’ve dated men who played soccer nationally and men who—well—just played. I’ve dated men I’ve liked, lusted, and—currently—love. But I ain’t ever dated a bachelor who didn’t live like they were not only members but Presidents of Phi Delta Disgusting.
Unlike Cary, these bachelors dress haphazardly—preferring to choose dirty clothes from the hamper rather than a suit and tie from a hanger. They have a strange habit of sporting the newest athletic shoes—Adidas, Nike, Converse—always name brands-- and paring them with the free t-shirt they scored last week at the radio-thon that reads “WFRT—we blow the others away.” Today’s bachelor dresses based on a simple olfactory examination—if it doesn’t burn their nose hair when they sniff it, they think they can wear it. And can anyone tell me why shoe-tying is suddenly optional?
The bachelor’s I’ve dated have never drunk or even ordered a martini. They like Red Bull, coffee, or old coca-cola they’ve found under the front seat of the car. They serve ketchup in tiny packets, drink from jelly glasses, and possess a plethora of steak knives they’ve stolen from various steak houses. They don’t cook at home—as a rule—unless it’s like canned—and they own more take-out menus than underwear. Mis-matched plates, cups, 2 forks and 1 frying pan have always been considered the standard.
Today’s bachelor has furniture—if you call one lazy boy recliner and a blue tote for an end table a living room set. They sleep in apartments that look like frat houses, bedrooms that look like Oscar Madison threw up, and beds that look eerily like they’ve seen more action than Arnold, Sly, and Bruce Willis combined. They never possess salt and pepper shakers, vacuum cleaners, or, it seems, the common sense to desire these items. There is no hired maid—and I’m pretty sure they simply rely on the girl current relationship to serve in that capacity—killing two birds with one stone and all. They control the TV if you please, and even if you don’t, and always while they play Double Down on the computer. They believe we love to see them naked—anywhere and anytime—their penises flopping lazily from side-to-side while they explain the virtues of Chip Coffey and Paranormal Activities to you, and aren’t opposed to facing the world skivvy-less and in flip flops. They burp a lot; gag a lot—seemingly having a never-ending supply of hair balls caught in their throat—and fart.
Ah yes, the bachelor fart. Tell me why? Why? Why does a man need to be married or in a relationship and harassed into withholding intentional farts? I simply do not get it. And what’s with the smile that seems to accompany all of them? It’s not funny….it’s not funny at all. They lift their legs to fart, point their asses at you to fart, bend slightly at the waist and push to fart, and regale you with stories of farts. So very unCary Grant like, don’t you think?
I want to go back…if only for a day. I want the Cary Grant sort of bachelor to swoon over me and dance with me and have no intentions of sleeping with me at the end of the night. Which inevitably leads me to believe, perhaps those bachelors were gay??
I’ve been dating pretty much since 2007. And although this is in no way intended to sluttify myself, I’ve dated all shapes and sizes of bachelors. I say this only to qualify myself in the matters of bachelors and their lifestyles. I’ve dated fat men, skinny men, tall men, and short men, men with college degrees and men with GED’s. I’ve dated men who played soccer nationally and men who—well—just played. I’ve dated men I’ve liked, lusted, and—currently—love. But I ain’t ever dated a bachelor who didn’t live like they were not only members but Presidents of Phi Delta Disgusting.
Unlike Cary, these bachelors dress haphazardly—preferring to choose dirty clothes from the hamper rather than a suit and tie from a hanger. They have a strange habit of sporting the newest athletic shoes—Adidas, Nike, Converse—always name brands-- and paring them with the free t-shirt they scored last week at the radio-thon that reads “WFRT—we blow the others away.” Today’s bachelor dresses based on a simple olfactory examination—if it doesn’t burn their nose hair when they sniff it, they think they can wear it. And can anyone tell me why shoe-tying is suddenly optional?
The bachelor’s I’ve dated have never drunk or even ordered a martini. They like Red Bull, coffee, or old coca-cola they’ve found under the front seat of the car. They serve ketchup in tiny packets, drink from jelly glasses, and possess a plethora of steak knives they’ve stolen from various steak houses. They don’t cook at home—as a rule—unless it’s like canned—and they own more take-out menus than underwear. Mis-matched plates, cups, 2 forks and 1 frying pan have always been considered the standard.
Today’s bachelor has furniture—if you call one lazy boy recliner and a blue tote for an end table a living room set. They sleep in apartments that look like frat houses, bedrooms that look like Oscar Madison threw up, and beds that look eerily like they’ve seen more action than Arnold, Sly, and Bruce Willis combined. They never possess salt and pepper shakers, vacuum cleaners, or, it seems, the common sense to desire these items. There is no hired maid—and I’m pretty sure they simply rely on the girl current relationship to serve in that capacity—killing two birds with one stone and all. They control the TV if you please, and even if you don’t, and always while they play Double Down on the computer. They believe we love to see them naked—anywhere and anytime—their penises flopping lazily from side-to-side while they explain the virtues of Chip Coffey and Paranormal Activities to you, and aren’t opposed to facing the world skivvy-less and in flip flops. They burp a lot; gag a lot—seemingly having a never-ending supply of hair balls caught in their throat—and fart.
Ah yes, the bachelor fart. Tell me why? Why? Why does a man need to be married or in a relationship and harassed into withholding intentional farts? I simply do not get it. And what’s with the smile that seems to accompany all of them? It’s not funny….it’s not funny at all. They lift their legs to fart, point their asses at you to fart, bend slightly at the waist and push to fart, and regale you with stories of farts. So very unCary Grant like, don’t you think?
I want to go back…if only for a day. I want the Cary Grant sort of bachelor to swoon over me and dance with me and have no intentions of sleeping with me at the end of the night. Which inevitably leads me to believe, perhaps those bachelors were gay??
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