A few European embassies invited me and my friends for an open house on Saturday, and by invite I mean I saw a flyer somewhere. Our last embassy visit was Hungary and its 100-deep line of people waiting for a free ladle of goulash (it had meat). I waited patiently with my muscle freak sidekick, and the conversation got on dreadlocks. I made the comment that it’s interesting to see blonde Europeans with dreadlocks, since it puts their fine hair in an unnatural state not achievable without wax. Then he says, “Eww, dreadlocks are grimy and just dirty.” Right behind us was a woman with grimy dreadlocks down to her ass.

We kept running into the same people at different embassies. Early on I noticed an Asian woman whose upper body and face was the result of severe burns. You feel real sympathy for a few seconds and then you get on with your life. Me, muscle freak, and another guy was feasting on our goulash where, for a reason I forget, muscle freak shouts, “It’s not like you are deformed or anything.” At that very moment, the Asian woman walks behind us with her friends. She seemed like the type that already hated black men.

Outside waiting for the shuttle bus, muscle freak was joking about being handicapped. He then simulated a limp, one that was so good I accused him of practicing in his bedroom. As soon as he was done, a woman older than 75-years-old with a limp and a cane walked by.

As for what happened in these three situations, nothing. If you’re big and black, you can pretty much do whatever you want. It’s almost like a super power.

I have to clarify some things about me that have been going around in this paparazzi post. Especially this photo..

First the 100% Huggable Care Bear shirt. I don’t believe that simply advertising myself as huggable (as opposed to, say, well-endowed or extremely wealthy) gets me an unlimited supply of poon. I will continue wearing it even though there is yellow stainage in the arm pit area.

Second, the floral pink umbrella. In Rio during Carnival I accidentally stole a girl’s potted plant costume hat. Here’s the hat…

The next day it was raining so I needed an umbrella. What’s cool about most cities in South America is that if it starts raining all these umbrella salesmen come out of the woodwork to sell you umbrellas (duh) and trash bag ponchos. I bought one in Rio that matched both the hat and the festivities as well, and not because of anything potentially related to a deep deep latent homosexuality.

It’s unfortunate that the Care Bear shirt matches ravishingly with my pink umbrella, but it’s more unfortunate that this town is so starchy that people stared and made low volume disparaging comments. Yeah but they’re too scared to say it to MY FACE… except for this one guy but he was pretty big so I pretended not to hear.

Postscript: Funny, when I grabbed the photo from pervert meathead’s blog, the filename was gayhairy.jpg.

On the weekends the bus ends at 2:30am but I don’t get to the metro (subway) station until 3:30. It’s an expensive $11 cab ride home. So I hook up my bike on the front of the bus when I head out, lock it up at the metro station, go out and do my thing, then hop on the bike on the way back for the three mile ride home. Even though I stay on the sidewalk it’s stupid dangerous and I get yelled at by drunk Mexicans from their cars who mock me and my late-night mode of transportation. I raise my fist and yell back, “Fuck you I used to be a scientist!!” By the time I get home at 4am I’m drenched in sweat and have to stand in front of a fan for 10 minutes before I can go to sleep.

I was out where this older woman was gawking at me. She makes her move while I was eating delicious strawberry cupcakes. The same night she takes me out to drinks and a light meal and I reach in my pocket and slide the lubricated condom around the wrapper getting ready for the only thing I’m really good at in life. Towards the end of the night when it’s time to bang she says, “I really like you and I think we should wait to build something. We’ll email each other every day until I come back in three weeks.”

I got a number of a young, pretty Italian girl. I called her and for some reason she picked up. I don’t remember the last time a girl picked up the phone when I first called. SHE WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO PICK UP. I completely blanked. The hamster in my brain just shrugged. One second, two seconds of silence. Three seconds!! Eternity! Out of anything in the world I could have said, it ended it being, “Oh girls don’t usually pick up the phone so I was about to leave a message.” My wall has a hole.

I had an interview of sorts for a slave labor freelance writing gig. I begged the guy for an afternoon appointment but he preferred 11am, which meant I had to wake up at 8:30 to eat and get ready for the 90 minute commute. The night before I couldn’t go to sleep until 5am. I set two alarms but must have cut them both off while in a sleepwalking state because when I wake up the clock says 10am. I emailed the guy, “Sorry I didn’t come through,” then I went back to sleep and got up at my normal time of noon.

I wonder if I’ll ever reminisce about these days when I’m filthy rich and hand feeding my perfect assed Brazilian bride chocolates wrapped in gold foil.

Thursday night. Dead. Stupid, ugly, humorless, boring, frigid bitches everywhere. Not a single girl I like in four hours. I don’t believe I’m still here. For five people. But because I didn’t have a plan, because I didn’t get my shit together, I’m stuck here for god knows how much longer. I don’t know what’s worse, being stuck in a job you hate or a place you’re sick of. I’ll be on a plane by November, December. I pray I don’t come back.

Lawyerchick:

Actually, here’s what the “girl talk” sounded like:

Me: “Are you ready to go someplace else? I don’t see anyone that I’m all that interested in here, so I’m ready to move on. Unless you think you might like this guy?”

My friend (girl 2): “Nah, he’s OK, but I’m ready to go check out someplace else. Let’s go!”

So get over yourself.

You just proved every single point I made.. thanks.

You had your chance with me and blew it. Move aside with grace and dignity instead of denying your friend a chance.

Me and VK were at the DC bar Marvin on a recent Friday night. If you’re wondering why we go all the time when the average age is 30, I think it’s because we’re the only guys there who have game (besides Roissy). We do alright when talent shows up.

Three cute girls were checking us out and wouldn’t stop. VK opened them and I joined in later to talk to the tallest one. Within a minute I felt something was wrong… it was like she had a rod shoved up her ass. Turns out she is going to law school. That was all I needed to know. I looked over her shoulder and saw nothing else, so it was this lawyer chick or nothing.

I’m working on her and it’s going well. Five minutes into the conversation, in a pitiful attempt to compliment me which I’m sure took a lot of courage for her, she said, “You’re not lame.” She’s touching me and playing with her hair. I was on track, and she’s actually pretty good looking.

But then, out of nowhere, the third friend comes back from getting a drink. She looks at me, smiles, and just holds it. There it was. Instantly I think, “I want THIS one.” I didn’t care that I already put work into the lawyer chick because this other chick was just oozing warmth and I knew she was more my type. I take a break from the lawyer chick and started talking to the new girl. But we’re not even talking, just looking at each other. It was on and I was very pleased.

After a minute the lawyer chick says “girl talk.” The girls huddle up and start whispering to each other. I’m not worried—in fact I have to do guy talk often with my wingman to sort out situations. A minute later they are done and the lawyer chick says, “We’re leaving.” Then they walk away.

In Brazil I got with a girl and two hours into it I find out that she actually came with a group of friends. The friends never interrupted once. But here you have girls running around treating their friends like little kids, babysitting them and making decisions about which guys guys they should get with. Unfortunately in this passive culture it’s not common for one girl to stand up to her friend in the heat of the moment with other friends looking on. She passes on the desirable male to get approval so her already low self-esteem is not shattered.

I’m on board VK’s Stop Blocking Movement and started an anti-cockblocking web site to assist the cause. From this point on every time I get blocked, I will go to the blocker and say, “I hope you get The Clap when you least expect it.” I know no other way to solve this problem.

I saw the lawyer chick a week later at the same bar. I poked her, she looked, and then ignored me. She won.

Cassidy is a 6 feet 3 inch “model.”

And here’s a strangely erotic video of her arm wrestling a girl in her panties. She’s not as strong as I imagined. I’m sure she blamed her poor performance on having “too much leverage,” which is the reason I lose arm wrestling competitions to my shorter friends.

Several years ago I banged a 6 foot volleyball player. I had to give her clear instructions in bed because moving her was impossible. What a nightmare when one night she asked for a piggy-back ride. I prefer petite women because they are much easier to handle (and more importantly they make me look bigger), but I will have sex with just about any body type except morbidly obese.

As for my answer, hell yeah I’d bang that. For the story alone.

I did a Google search on “roosh” to see how bad the damage is, and noticed the fourth result is something from Urban Dictionary:

A poseur who thinks he’s a playa. Someone who is clueless about how unskilled he is at picking up girls.

So Michelle was at the bar and this roosh comes up to her and says “hey baby, what’s your sign?”

It has 83 up votes.

There is a sad article called Marry Him which has been floating around. I’ve beaten the topic to death here but there are a few sections I wanted to comment on.

And despite growing up in an era when the centuries-old mantra to get married young was finally (and, it seemed, refreshingly) replaced by encouragement to postpone that milestone in pursuit of high ideals (education! career! but also true love!), every woman I know—no matter how successful and ambitious, how financially and emotionally secure—feels panic, occasionally coupled with desperation, if she hits 30 and finds herself unmarried.

Part of the problem is that when she does hit the panic stage she blames everyone but herself. It’s hopeless because these women will never make the changes necessary to get a husband. They don’t adapt.

My advice is this: Settle! That’s right. Don’t worry about passion or intense connection. Don’t nix a guy based on his annoying habit of yelling “Bravo!” in movie theaters. Overlook his halitosis or abysmal sense of aesthetics. Because if you want to have the infrastructure in place to have a family, settling is the way to go. Based on my observations, in fact, settling will probably make you happier in the long run, since many of those who marry with great expectations become more disillusioned with each passing year.

All girls have to do is be reasonable. They need to ask themselves if what they want deep in their hearts exists in the real world. If it does then is she bringing enough to the table?

It sounds obvious now, but I didn’t fully appreciate back then that what makes for a good marriage isn’t necessarily what makes for a good romantic relationship. Once you’re married, it’s not about whom you want to go on vacation with; it’s about whom you want to run a household with. Marriage isn’t a passion-fest; it’s more like a partnership formed to run a very small, mundane, and often boring nonprofit business.

This is obvious to most guys. We have this expression called “marriage material” to describe girls who take care of us and would run a good household. We would not consider marrying the girl who allows us to videotape sex so we can show all our friends.

So if you rarely see your husband—but he’s a decent guy who takes out the trash and sets up the baby gear, and he provides a second income that allows you to spend time with your child instead of working 60 hours a week to support a family on your own—how much does it matter whether the guy you marry is The One?

Notice the extreme selfishness: who cares about the child having a good daddy as long as you can be with it? With all we know about the disadvantages of growing up in a single family household, I’m surprised more people are not calling these single mothers for the harm they are doing on kids who I’m sure would prefer to have a father.

What I and many women who hold out for true love forget is that we won’t always have the same appeal that we may have had in our 20s and early 30s. Having turned 40, I now have wrinkles, bags under my eyes, and hair in places I didn’t know hair could grow on women.

Gross, but don’t forget the kid from an anonymous man.

This article got me thinking to why is there demand for dating or marriage advice. Why does this article (and this blog) even need to be written? I think part of the answer is that there is no tradition or culture to fall back on in meeting people. In this country our parents did not give us sound advice on how to meet the opposite sex and how to find a long-term mate, so a Mystery comes along or The Rules girls write a book (”breathe slowly”!!!) and everyone jumps on because no one knows what the fuck they are doing. Something retarded like speed dating or “lock and key” parties arrive in e-mail boxes and everyone tries it because they have no idea how to meet someone. And a 40-year-old woman who was inseminated with sperm and who failed in finding just one decent man is writing an article in a major publication on how to get married. That would be like me writing about how to keep your long-term girlfriend happy.

If knowledge was passed from generation to generation then you’d have a lot of people growing up with sound beliefs on how to deal with the opposite sex, but that’s not what we have here anymore. Instead we’re hypersexualized and clueless.

I stayed in the worst hostel in South America for ten nights. If you are wondering why I didn’t leave, it’s because I was trapped after pre-paying for Carnival. Constructing this photo montage helped me cope.

Let’s start with my bunk bed.

I had the top bunk, which turned out to be the best bed in my fourteen bed pen. I used the locker behind me as a nightstand. Still sleeping is an Englishman who would sing a song called “Do your balls hang low” when drunk.

Here’s my repaired foam pillow:

I didn’t mind the foam so much but it was not very clean (think traveler drool sponge), and many times I’d wake up with my skin touching it.

Here’s a typical mattress, with diarrhea or urine stain, probably both. It was made of the same foam material as the pillows and compressed to the thickness of a slice of Chicago style pizza when layed upon.

I got lucky with my bunk, and by lucky I mean a robber took everything I owned except my shoes so I could walk home naked, but the others were less fortunate.

Note the six inch space between the bunks. It was almost like they were sleeping in the same bed with each other. This room was still better than the one next door that had a large water leak no one could source, or the room nicknamed “the shed” which was damp and moldy.

There were two bathrooms I could use: one in my pen and one in the hallway which twenty other people shared. Here’s a picture of my bathroom:

As you can see, the sink needs to be repaired. About halfway through my stay, another Englishman decided to wash his feet in the sink after coming home from a night out. As he came crashing down to the floor with the sink at 6 o’clock in the morning, I bet he was both suprised and dissapointed that it was held up by what appears to be bookshelf brackets.

A sign put up my management after the incident was promptly defaced.

The sink was not repaired by the time I left. Here’s the other sink:

This sink had a drainage problem that management never fixed so for several days I used a shower stall as a sink. I could only use it while wearing flip-flops because of the splash-back. After each use I dried my shins along with my hands.

Here is the floor of the shared bathroom:

You see that black “water”? My flip flop would get just stuck enough in it that when the sole released the sewage mix splashed on my ankles. For this hostel I aggressively rearranged my number two schedule until after the maid cleaned up, but I was reluctant to urinate as well. The toilets would not flush properly so many times I was greeted in the bathroom with someone else’s feces in the bowl. There will not be a picture of that.

Here’s the security camera. Notice something wrong?

Speaking of security, there was a little favela within closer walking distance than the beach.

The accomodations were so bad that it was the main source of bonding with the other travelers. Many of us maintained countdowns to check out. If you find yourself in Rio de Janeiro, whatever you do, do not stay at Che Legarto Budget hostel in Copacabana.