Advice From Cranky To Sappy Couples
I’m not bitter. I’m happy for all those happy couples out there, good on ya, way to go, glad you found your soul mate. My understanding, however, seems to be that when you’re blinded by love, by some process of multiplication, you slowly become blinded to every other fucking thing that surrounds you. It’s not your fault – you’re in love. Nothing else matters. I get it.
However, to ensure that you keep that fuzzy feeling, you’ll have to ensure that you’re not pissing off the people around you. Because I’m pretty sure that love doesn’t protect my fingers from gouging out your puppy-dog eyes. Here are 5 basic guidelines:
1. Making out is great. I agree. You can even do it in public – fine. It’s 2009, grope, Shmoopie all you want. But please, be considerate about where you’re foreplaying. On the beach, fine. Movie theatre, I can deal with that. On the bus/train during morning rush hour? Come ON.!! No one wants to see you making out EVER but this sentiment is doubled before 9am, before coffee, and while sardined on public transit. I can hear your saliva being exchanged, and no, that’s not Shmoopie’s ass, that’s mine.
The worst part is that there’s nowhere I can go for at least 10 more stops. I feel like I’m imprisoned on a high school field trip bus. Do us all a favour and have a nice morning fuck BEFORE you leave the house.
2. Speaking of “Shmoopie,” pet names are fun – they’re cute, they’re endearing…but to you and only you. We don’t think your pet names are cute. In fact, it makes me want to pull a anvil and drop it on m head. You have real names – please use them. I want to keep my lunch down and that’s not going to happen if I’m forced to sit through the ABCs of every nickname you have for each other, articulated in Paris-Hilton-esque baby talk. You’re adults. Use your words.
3. I know that you love your boyfriend/girlfriend. You know HOW I know that? Because you’ve told me that. Five freaking times. In the last two freaking minutes. I also know how great he/she is in bed, how sweet he/she is to you, how/when/where said paramour asked you out, what their dog’s name is and where they work. I know he/she on your mind, but please talk about something else. And while it’s impressive that you have the ability and creativity to incorporate Shmoopie into ANY topic of conversation, it’s annoying and no one cares.
4. You’re in love, everything is perfect, you found your match. Yee-fucking-ha for you both. Seriously, I’m happy for you. HOWEVER, this does NOT mean that you are now love experts.
If you want to get your Ph.D. in the Psychology of Love from an accredited institution, then I might listen to you without smirking or throwing something at your head. But until then, shut the fuck up. I know that I’m single and I’m fine with that. I don’t want your tips, advice or patronizing pity.
Similarly, being in love does not make you a matchmaker. I don’t want to meet your cousin or coworker or the girl who picks up the cans from outside your apartment building. If I actually thought that you were trying to make a good match, I’d consider, but I get the feeling that you’re the Jehovas Witnesses of Love. Love is not a club or a religion or a cult that you can recruit members into. It happens, and it’ll happen to me one day, but it’s not going to be with someone random. “Desparate” is NOT a synonym for “Single” last time I checked.
I’m fine, really. I don’t need your help.
5. My latest relationship ends. Another failed attempt at love. I’m sad, it sucks, but life goes on. The last thing I want is to be around sappy couples. No offence. I want to hang with my friends. Why, then, do you a) bring along your significant other to remind everyone of your happy-in-love-ways or b) come alone but only talk about how happy you are, when the wedding is, what you’re going to name your future children. Did you not get the memo? This is a breakup gathering. For support. It’s not all about you.
Again, happy for you. Really, truly am. I love you. I love your future spouse. But I don’t want to hear about it right now. There’s a time and a place for sharing with your friends how happy you are in love, but not when your friend’s just been duped by cupid. Why don’t you just kick me in the stomach really hard. Seriously. I’m going to puke anyway when you bring out the baby-talk.
If you follow these, I guarantee that your friends and family will give you nicer wedding gifts and that strangers won’t attempt homicide on either of you.
Canuckastan Imposters
As a citizen of Canuckastan, you have to be extra vigilant. There are a lot of impostors out there. If you suspect that someone is falsely trying to pass themselves off as a Canuck, make the following statement – and then carefully note their reaction:
“Last night, I cashed my pogey and went to buy a mickey of C.C. at the beer parlour, but my skidoo got stuck in the muskeg on my way back to the duplex. I was trying to deke out a deer, you see. Damn chinook, melted everything. And then a Mountie snuck up behind me in a ghost car and gave me an impaired. I was S.O.L., sitting there dressed only in my Stanfields and a tuque at the time. And the Mountie, he’s all chippy and everything, calling me a “shit disturber” and what not. What could I say, except, “Sorry, EH!”
If the person you are talking to nods sympathetically, they’re one of us.If, however, they stare at you with a blank incomprehension, they are not a real Canuck. Have them reported to the authorities at once.
The passage cited above contains no fewer than 19 different Canuckstanian words. In order:
- Pogey: EI (Employment insurance). Money provided by the government for not working.
- Mickey: A small bottle of booze (13 oz) (A Texas mickey, on the other hand, is a ridiculously big bottle of booze, which, despite the name, is still Canuckstanian through and through.)
- C.C.: Canuckastan Club, a brand of rye. Not to be confused with “hockey stick,” another kind of Canuckastan Club.
- Beer Parlour: Like an ice cream parlour, but for Canucks.
- Skidoo: Self-propelled decapitation unit for teenagers, (Snow-Mobiles)
- Muskeg: Boggy swampland.
- Duplex: A single building divided in half with two sets of inhabitants – each trying to pretend the other doesn’t exist while at the same time managing to drive each other crazy; metaphor for Canuckastan’s french and English.
- Deke: found in the dictionary as a “skillful misdirection.” As a noun, it is used most often in exclamatory constructions, such as: “Whadda deke!” Meaning, “My, what an impressive display of physical dexterity employing misdirection and guile.”
- Chinook: An unseasonably warm wind that comes over the Rockies and onto the plains, melting snow banks in Calgary but just missing Edmonton, much to the pleasure of Calgarians.
- Mountie: A Canuck icon, strong of jaw, red of coat, pure of heart.Always get their man! (See also Pepper spray, uses of.)
- Snuck: To have sneaked; to move, past tense, in a sneaky manner; non-restrictive extended semi-gerundial form of “did sneak.” (We think.)
- Ghost Car: An unmarked police car, easily identifiable by its
inconspicuousness. - Impaired: A charge of drunk driving. Used both as a noun and as an adjective (the alternative adjectival from of “impaired” being “pissed to the gills”).
- S.O.L.*: Shit outta luck; in an unfortunate predicament.
- Stanfields: Men’s underwear, especially Grandpa-style, white cotton ones with a big elastic waistband and a large superfluous flap in the front and back!
- Tuque: Canuckastans official National Head Apparel, with about the same suave sex appeal as a pair of Stanfields
- Chippy: Behaviour that is inappropriately aggressive; constantly
looking for a reason to find offense; from “chip on one’s shoulder.”(See Western Canuckastan) shit disturber: (See Quebec) a troublemaker or provocateur.
Screw You Chores!
To hell with it, cleaning the fridge. How the hell do you get so dirty? I don’t eat in there, I simply store food. What the hell is that stain on the bottom shelf? Do gnomes have parties in here when I’m at work or something? Nasty little gnomes.
And, for some reason, I feel really, really vulnerable when I’m bent over, scrubbing your gross shelves. Don’t know why. So thank you for keeping my beer cold, but fuck you for making a mess of it.
Screw you, paying bills. Every damn month? Are you kidding me? I barely even watched TV this month, I still gotta shell out all that cash? And, while I’m at it, to hell with your pathetic little late fees. They’re small enough for me to easily ignore them but they add up over time. So thank you for the electricity, water and internet, but to hell with you for your constant demands.
Screw it, deleting old files from my computer. What man can make this decision? It’s like choosing which of my kid to leave behind on the sinking ship. Damn, this is killing me. I hate my old ass computer.
To hell with you, changing light bulbs. It’s 2006, right? I was pissed when I wasn’t issued a jetpack in 2000 (where’s my fucking ray-gun?!?), I figured by now technology would’ve at least advanced to the point where I don’t have to stand on my wobbly chair and deal with this crap. Two bonus fuck yous: for scaring the crap out of me when I walk into a darkened room, innocently flick the switch and get momentarily blinded by that huge flash and terrifying pop! Also, for somehow convincing your lightbulb brethren to join you, causing a chain reaction that means I’m filled with fear whenever I turn on a light. Pop! Pop! Pop! What the hell? Did you all join in a suicide pact while I was asleep?
Bastards.
To hell with washing dishes. Yes, I know, you smell funny, and I know the longer I wait, the more weird slime stuff is just gonna accumulate on you. That’s why I’ve pretty much switched to just using paper plates (fuck you, environment) and eating with my hands. I’m a caveman in an apartment.
Ok.. I am done.
For now……
