What women really want: 101 easy-to-understand tips on seducing the opposite sex

Many people have asked me over the course of my life “Ethan, my man, how is it that you always have these beautiful woman all over you? I mean, I’m an intelligent, reasonably attractive man, why don’t I always have supermodels begging to go home with me?" And I have to admit, at first I didn’t want to answer them. There are a limited number of perfect tens out there and I don’t want other guys horning in on my action. But I’ve recently had a change of heart. I understand that while attracting beautiful women is important, money is more so. Now, don’t get me wrong, I have plenty of money, but one thing I’m going to teach you in my easy-to-understand series, is that you can never have enough money (and this is especially true while seducing women).

Now a lot of you might think that $49.99 is a lot for a book. Right? Wrong! First of all, I wouldn’t make anyone pay money for a book. What are you in college? No, I have recorded my entire lesson plan onto seven single, easy-to-understand cassette tapes or three CDs. Second, I’m going to teach you how to attract any woman you want whenever you want. I’m going to teach you how you can go out at three o’clock in the morning wearing sweat pants and flip flops and go to an up-scale restaurant and still walk out with a perfect ten. That’s information that I’m sure you’re willing to pay a mere $49.99 for right? Yes, it is.

Did you know that you can have unprotected sex with as many women as you want without ever worrying about STDs or an unwanted pregnancy using a banana peel and a warm glass of water? Well I will teach you how in my inexpensive, easy-to-understand series. This is an offer that you don’t want to miss!

Here are some of the things you will learn in my series:

* You know that pheromones are important for attracting women. Well I’ll give you a pheromone recipe (that works) that you can make by simply mixing crushed ladybugs and grass clippings and applying them to the “hot zones” on your body.
* Body language is the most important thing you can say. I’ll teach you how to seduce a women from across the room using only three of your fingers and a gesture you’ll never forget.
* You think that showering using regular, old-fashioned water is going to help you? No, it won't.
* Remember when you were in second grade and the girls had “cooties?” You'll learn how to use that to your advantage.
* You think a name like “Allan,” or “Sam” is going to get you laid? Absolutely not. I’ll teach you how to pick a new name for yourself that will get you laid by a new woman every night of the week. You think I was born Ethan? No way.

This is an exclusive one time offer, a chance of a lifetime that you will never have again. If you don’t buy my series immediately you will never know what it’s like to have sex with 450 women at the same time. So buy now!

Starlets in the Sky: A Teen Singer's Weblog Entry

First of all, let me just say that I am an artist. No matter what anybody says, I know that I can create more beauty in a single notebook full of lyrics than they can in their whole pathetic lives. They judge me, and tell me I’m untalented, but that’s just because they don’t have any talent. Naomi wouldn’t even know what talent was if it bit her right on her untalented ass. Nobody realizes that it hurts me when they say those really terrible things about me. Even though I’m really talented at music and I’m famous and really well liked, I’m still a person, and I have feelings.

Second of all, I am either going to the Halloween party as: A.) sexy devil; B.) Cher; or C.) sexy kitty. Personally, I’d like to go as the sexy devil but I don’t think daddy’s going to let me. When I told him about my plans he wasn’t happy. He said it might project a negative image, and that the costume showed too much skin, and that I should show some skin but just not in that area. He told me I can only expose skin in the area around the midriff, not the upper thighs. Daddy has done a lot of research on the subject and he says that since most of my fans are teens, and most of my albums are purchased for them by their parents, projecting an image of sluttyness would alienate a lot of the parents and my record sales would go down. He said I should go as Cher and then Ferras could go as Sonny Bono and that would be more camera-friendly. He said that he didn’t doubt for a second that it would get our pictures at least in Celebrity Star, if not on the cover of Teen Beat, or Fresh Squad. Even though that doesn't really matter now.

Just in case you’ve been living in a hole this year, I was just in the hottest reality TV show ever, where I went on all these dates with ten different boys and then got to choose which one I wanted to marry at the end of it. They competed against each other for me by singing and doing various jobs, like producing a record and managing a band, to prove that they would be able to provide for me as a husband. The show was called Who’ll Marry Meegan, and it got some of the best ratings NBC has ever had for any reality TV show. It was second best only to Fish Out Of Water, which I think is a really stupid show.

As soon as I saw Ferras singing though, I knew that I would choose him. He sang “Love Me, Love Me Truly” by Cole Star. Most of the boys did a really good job, but Ferras was totally the best. Half way through, in that part when the song goes:
When you look at me
Baby I can see myself in your eyes
When you call to me
I can hear the sound of surprise
The feeling’s so strong
I know it’s not wrong
Baby you’re mine forever
Ferras looked at me, and gave me this half smile. It was so sexy. I knew, right then and there, that Ferras was going to be mine. It was love at first sight for both of us. When he looked into my eyes as he sang that song, our love was as deep as the ocean. It could never be broken. I hadn’t even talked to him yet, but I could feel our love welling up in my throat, like a beautiful song, just welling up inside of me, ready to burst out of my mouth. My heart was beating so hard that I could feel it in my finger tips and my face must have been so red!

As you already know I had this really bad case of strep throat, that caused me to have to lip synch to a pre recorded track on that stupid Ted Spritz Show last month. It was really horrible, because as soon as I went out on stage the song started skipping and people started booing and I just turned around and ran off stage.

Most people are really nice and understanding, but there are also a lot of serious jerks. The next day the magazines all had headlines like “Meegan Vanilli?” Dealing with that has been so hard to cope with, you don’t even know. People have gone so far as to make websites all about how they think I don’t have any talent, when they are the ones who don’t have talent. You know how people say that you need to “walk a mile in someone’s shoes unless you be judged?” Well they wouldn’t even fit in my shoes.

But the main thing is that this should have brought me and Ferras closer together. He should have been understanding about all this and comforted me, but instead he said that as an artist he would never lip synch, and he also said he doesn’t even believe that I ever had strep throat. I seriously can’t even believe what a jerk he’s being.

So, the Ted Spritz Show was like three weeks ago and I’ve pretty much spent that time in bed. I was so depressed that even after I felt better, I just stayed in bed. Ferras only visited me like twice and only after I called him and told him to get his ass over because his girl is sick.

And, when I finally got out of bed and got a chance to read Teen Beat I couldn’t believe my eyes. There, right on the cover, was a picture of Ferras and Naomi together with this headline that said like, “Meegan is Streped of Her Man,” or something. Naomi is a total no-talent skank, who doesn’t even deserve to be on the cover of any magazine, let alone on Teen Beat with Ferras.

So then here’s the other thing, and this just happened like fifteen minutes ago when I called Ferras to tell him that I totally know everything that’s going on with him and Naomi and he’s not fooling anyone because it’s right there in pictures. Right after I told him that, he goes into this thing about how he was under contract to date me. He actually said that. Under contract! He said Daddy made him sign a contract to date me and sing on my next album and that his ‘obligations’ to me would end as soon as my next record was released, but he said didn’t care because I’m just sitting in bed all the time and not working on any songs or anything and he’s going to break the contract. I hung up the phone on him and I’ve been crying ever since. I don’t know why he would lie to me about this, he is seriously such a total jerk.

But you know what? I don’t even care. I’m going to sit down and start writing my next album right now. I am going to pick up my guitar and write a record that will touch the hearts of millions of people just like me, because I have been given the power to touch people with my art. I am going to sit down right now and write songs that will make Ferras realize that he left me for a no-talent bitch. I will write songs that will make Naomi so sorry for what she did to me that she will go into her room and lock the door and stay in there forever. I have the natural talent and the drive to change the world with my music, and I am going to use it, and I am going to make sure that all the love and the praise of this entire world rains down directly on me.

Breaking up with a Moscow coffee shop

Listen Bucer’s, we need to talk. This has been escalating for a few months now, and I think we need to get all the cards out on the table once and for all. I’m sure you’ve noticed the signs. We don’t talk, we don’t see each other much any more, we’ve been slowly drifting apart. I think it’s finally time to say goodbye.

No, no listen, it isn’t you Bucer’s, if it’s anybody it’s me. It was really amazing at first, we were totally into the same things. You like good music and books and you’ve got quite a collection of art. It’s great that you serve alcohol, and you know you’ve got some of the best coffee drinks I’ve ever had. It’s just that…well to be perfectly honest I’ve met someone else.

Yes, I know you know who it is, don’t be like that. One World will never replace you. I’m not replacing you. It’s just that One World offers me all the things I want in a café right now. You both have wireless and you’re both great places to study and read, but I never really got along with your patrons or your staff. It’s not like I don’t like them, because I do, I just can’t really talk to them. We don’t connect. They’re all classical music composition majors and Christians and they're really hard for me to relate to. I can’t say I didn’t try. I went out with them a couple times, I even karaoked with them, but you know how they are. They’re kind of pretentious. And I liked that at first. But One World is just so fresh and new. They have an awesome sense of fashion, the people that work there like to talk to me and their live bands aren’t always jazz. I like Vivaldi just as much as you do, but it’s not the only thing I listen to. Plus they actually sell their art.

I’m sorry. That was mean. But listen, you know this wouldn’t last forever. I’m just not your type. I’m too young, too brash. And look at you, you’re perfect for a college town. It’s not like you won’t find someone else. I’m sure you’ll find a brilliant literature professor who listens to Charles Ives and wears tweed and scarves, and you’ll be much better off. Yeah, I feel bad too. I’ll miss you Bucer’s, but really, this is for the best. Really.

wink, nod, fart, belch

If Date Movie made you laugh, chances are I don't care for you as a person.

dispatches from a lit class

I spent the better part of the evening learning CSS and making this template. This shit exausts me. But at least I'll never have to use that knowledge again. I set this up to post the writing I'm doing for my classes right now and I'll probably write other stuff and post that on here too. The posts I've done for my classes are pretty long, so I think I'll break them up with some shorter ones, but for the time being there are these. And for the next 13 days they're 30% off.

The Smell of Success

The odor that saturates the room is as captivating as it is repugnant. It is an intoxicating stew of smells, that has, over the course of several months, crept through the quarter-inch high gap between the bottom of my door and the carpet. It is the smell of moldering chicken bones, fetid milk, sawdust and body odor. You can almost see the smell in my apartment.

The “trash pit,” as it has been christened, resembles a scaled model of a landfill sitting next to our refrigerator. And while it no doubt harbors small and unique forms of life, and is almost certainly the leading cause of the hacking coughs that echo through the rooms late at night, the pit never diminishes, it only grows. When asked why no one has taken the trash to the dumpsters located less than one hundred yards from the room, my roommates reply “I’m busy with school,” or “throwing it out won’t really solve the problem…will it?”

The garbage was taken out just shy of two months ago as part of a joint cleaning project between all of the roommates. It was spurred on following an anomalous incident involving a human female, who briefly visited the room. All of us, embarrassed by her obvious disgust, vowed to “never let this happen again.” And for a short time the apartment was well organized and smelled of cooking spices a la scented candles. We no longer walked quickly, with bated breath, from the hallway to our rooms. The room was a locus for discussions, late night study sessions and OC parties. However, one afternoon I noticed, as I tossed an empty pizza pocket wrapper toward the garbage, that “the pit” had once again been resurrected.

While the apartment retains little of its former glory, we have continued using the common room as a popular hang-out. My roommate stands up from the couch stretching. Two bean shaped, butt-cheek spots mark the couch, documenting his five-and-a-half hour gaming session. “Dude, this semester is gonna be gay with aids,” he says, “I’ve got soo much shit to do.” He emits a loud, contagious yawn and sits again.

Much like the inside of a shoe, the damp, dark conditions of a couch, moistened by pant sweat, are prime habitat for bacteria. Tiny life thrives in our couch like a microcosmic Times Square. I imagine the bacteria, hosting soirees, sipping drinks and commenting on the growing obesity epidemic.

You can’t simply Febreze this away.

And, as I sit looking at the television with my roommate as he casually thumbs the controller, I begin to wonder if cleaning this really is beyond me. Because really, I know that when it does finally escalate to the critical point of cleaning, I will simply sit on the couch, look at the television and blame the whole mess on my gender.

The Fast Food Life

The bars are closed for the night, and this is where the party has gone. I can hear the deep bouncing rumble of the bass being pumped from the stereo in the car ahead of me vibrating some of the loose change on my dashboard. One of our noisy neighbors leans out of their car window yelling at the other cars in the line. Suddenly a beer can appears in his hand and he throws it. The orange street light glints in the liquid spewing from the can as it spirals in its trajectory through the parking lot. Our neighbor laughs and pulls his head back into his vehicle. If the cops knew about the Jack in the Box drive through at two in the morning they would never leave. Luckily they don’t know. I’m hungry and this line is long enough.
I’ve been coming here for years. Not to this line, but lines just like it that exist on the fast food strip of every town in America. These burger box shaped buildings have arisen seemingly by their own will from the asphalt wreckage of some sad lot that used to house a family store or an undeveloped park. Swings hung from trees here. People went on walks with their loved ones and happy, leashed pets. Now there is only this pallid building, full of pockmarked twenty-somethings who have been forced by fate or drug addictions to work the late shift. These small but speedy food services are the same everywhere. Only 16 states in the union have Jack in the Boxes, but every town in the developed world knows precisely what their food experience is like. There’s something about fast food that makes you feel like you can never leave.
We slowly move toward the colored screen as the song changes in the car ahead of us. I’m thinking about the bacon potato wedges I’m about to consume, a delightful mélange of potato shards floating in an orange, gelatinous cheese like substance, melted fat and bacon all nestled in a cardboard box that inexplicably reads “everything.” It’s a dish that, while sober I would avoid like a face full of debilitating acne, but after a few beers it becomes the driving force behind my very existence. I will cradle it in my lap, and eat it, and hurt, terribly tomorrow.

Maybe it’s the Pabst or the slow line, but something is conjuring some memories. I used to think about Sally a lot, but years have passed and I’ve all but forgotten her until tonight. I met Sally while working in a plastics factory that was charged with the manufacture of the disembodied yellow sheaths of automatic external defibrillators for some nameless medical company. The workplace was a large warehouse filled with old machines, loud noises and a redolence that can be described only as meth-like. Sally was a sixty two year old expatriate of Laos. She had lived in the United States for over 20 years but still had a great difficulty with the English language, which had oddly manifested itself as an intense joy. She laughed and grinned constantly. Her problem understanding people was perhaps due in part to the fact that after arriving on US soil, she began working at the factory where even the loudest shout was as audible as a whisper. In the mornings she shoved balls of cotton in her ears, further exacerbating the situation. She was about a foot shorter than me, probably four foot seven, and had a conspicuous mole above her top lip that sprouted several long strands of hair. Her hands were well worn and looked painful. During her breaks she would run them under warm water and sigh. Her teeth were perfectly uniform and white, leading me to suspect dentures at first, though I confirmed later that they were, in fact, her own perfect teeth. Sally and I became workplace friends immediately.
Throughout my life I have frequently found myself in non-sexual, mutual friendships with much older women. These relationships are satisfying, partly because they provide such a great deal of confusion among bystanders, but mostly because I am perpetually confused by and terrified of women, and these much older ones seem to hold all the secrets of their gender in one small wrinkled package. Sally laughed at almost everything I said, and though I knew I would likely elicit the same response if I quoted Ginsberg or the Necronomicon, it felt like she was listening, so I continued. “That funny,” she would say, “that reawy funny.”
The two of us ate lunch together every day and scheduled our “days on” together. She would request the machine near mine and throughout the day she would throw pieces of plastic at me, like a pestering child, as a joke.
Sally had come to the states after marrying her husband, a military officer that met her, married her and brought her to Idaho. Despite the fact that she began working at the factory the same year I was born she hadn’t made any friends there. She described her life as “work and sleep,” and she told me that she hadn’t done anything other than watch television in her off time in about 17 years. She stated it as a simple fact, not as a complaint, but as I am thoroughly American I have a great passion for my leisure time, and this struck me as being particularly depressing. I asked her what she liked to do, she said “bowing.” When I asked her if she would like to go bowling with me, she was excited. We picked out at time and place. Tonight, Sunset Bowling ally, eight o’clock. She never showed up.
The next day Sally avoided me. At lunch she ate in her car. When her shift was up she promptly left the building before I could say goodbye. The following day I walked up to her machine and greeted her. She didn’t say anything at first, and I mentioned that I was having lunch at noon if she wanted to join me. She hesitated, wringing her bony hands together. “I’m mawied,” she said, looking down. “That’s okay,” I said. “Maybe tomorrow?”
After that it was all pleasantries, “hi,” “bye,” but that was the extent of it. I was laid off in December, just before Christmas. When I left on my last day I caught a glance of her watching me through the window. She watched me with the face of an old dog through the chain link fence at the pound.

The woman who hands me the potato wedges through the square sliding window is over excited and nearly shouts “Have a good night!” The potato wedges are worth it. They’re salty and saturated with cheese, precisely what I knew I’d be getting. It’s nothing new, but it doesn’t matter because I’m used to it. The line, the taste, the sights and the smells, they’re all familiar. And even though I know that it isn’t, I like to think that’s a good thing.