Crazy, Stupid, Pathetic Women and Why I Hate Them

I hate women who feel the need to change themselves for a man. As in empty headed things who have no original thoughts of their own. Things. Yes, I said things. They are not human. They aspire to be Stepford Wives. Do you have an original thought of your own Stepford Wife? Or are you just a pathetic drone copying someone else? Do you even have a favorite food you pathetic thing with boobs and curves? Or are you just wasting our time? I lean towards the latter.

The other day I ran into an old beau of mine. He's dating someone who is on the youngish side. I don't care. I have been robbed from the cradle plenty of times. However I was a little different because I didn't act young and didn't come across as obviously parroting a man. I had crossed paths with this teeny bopper before. She aspired to be a Broadway Star of some sort and then a pop singer and did standup for a minute before she discovered that took talent and dedication. Anyway, my ex introduced her and apparently she was quick to say she didn't like rap because it denigrated women but instead liked rock. Not to mention she also quoted something from history, from Winston Churchill. Finally at the end of the five minutes we were hanging out she made a remark against African Americans that wreaked of veiled racism. I was taken aback. This was not this chick at all. When I knew her she bopped to hip hop, probably didn't own a book, and even was dating a black dude. Then it occurred to me, she was parrotting my ex's views!!!!! My ex hates hip hop and goes on these rants about how it denigrates women. Not to mention he loves history and Winston Churchill is his personal hero. Lastly, a number of years ago he was rightfully decked  by an African American man for being out of line and since then he has been a racist. Well it's a good thing this moron is an ex. Apparently he has a weakness for feeble minded women and so far that is one thing I am not.

Of course the top of the pathetic women list are the former girlfriends of the ex fiance who went ape shit after our breakup. Old high school girlfriends, my ex wrote to them and assured them they were special. The one I had the most contempt was special. She had a kid in high school and as a result had to marry the baby daddy. Well she didn't have to, it's just that she is one of those right to life whackos and thinks all life is beautiful. So she decided that my ex was the man to rescue her. Yes the man who lives in his mother's basement. She tried to make a play when we were together. Then when we broke up he got her to write me all sorts of nasty letters. The kicker was, she called me a bitch and a bulimic and misspelled both words. But what would I expect from a woman who lists The New Kids on the Block and Backstreet Boys as her favorite groups, and Z100 as her fave radio station and the Jersey Shore as her fave show? This tusker, easily over two hundred pounds, then goes as far as to go on some forum to diss me and say I was stalking my ex and that she had to block me. I didn't know about this until a friend of mine McGoogled me and asked what this idiot was talking about. I told him the story and he laughed. Maybe I should tell her to kill herself, she'll feel better. Or maybe just toss a soon to be extinct Twinkie in her fat cage, remind her that Jerry Springer is casting, and walk by with one of the Jonas Brothers with May Wilson on my arm. Then maybe she'll jump her crazy ass off of a bridge.

The winner of the most pathetic woman of all time is Dimsdale's ex. Dimsdale was a very famous comedian I had dated a little over a year ago. Actually, Dims is a legend. Anyway, he had a groupie who he had kept as one of his many gal pals who popped out his love child. After ten years of being strung along the skank magically got preggers. Well Dims, not wanting a family but wanting to be honorable sent her some dough. This whacky trainwreck, being rather greedy, demanded the child support to be tripled. Well Dimsdale severed ties with her and said he wasn't seeing the kid. Maybe it wasn't the right thing to do, but I got to know both the love child and baby mama. Both talked incessantly about how Dimsdale demanded them and capitalized on him any chance they got. From the play about their courtship to trashing him in the press, they get their money's worth. Anyway, as soon as I started seeing Dimsdale I got a series of hang up calls. They were always before and after my dates with him. Sometimes when I got the calls some woman's voice would yell, "BITCH!" Then she would slam the phone down. I knew who this was. His cray cray baby mama. I ordinarily feel bad for a woman who has been screwed but she made her bed and she needs to lie in it. She had that kid as a cash cow and not only ruined Dimsdale's life but the kid that didn't ask for it. Yeah, you gave birth to your little money maker but you need to pay slut. I told my mom about this and she said that while I was dating Dims that was none of their business and what they were doing was illegal. Either way, whenever the bitch love child sees me she won't look at me. Someone feels a lil guilty? But I don't blame her as much as I blame Mommy Dearest. To do it again I would parade with Dimsdale in front of them. Add insult to injury and let her know that she was just another groupie to him and the child he didn't acknowledge, well it was all her fault too. I think she is the epitome of pathetic. Just saying.

Sigh. Not a fan of pathetic women. From women who change for a man, to women who do a man's dirty work, to crazies who won't let go. They make having a uterus seem like such a terrible thing.

Love
April
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
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Strippers on Strike

Back when I was twenty years old, before I turned into the trainwreck who keeps this blog, I was actually a nice kid. I was off the bus from Pittsburgh attending NYU and had dreams damnit. Now I am getting older, look back and say, "April, you were such a dumb ass in those days. How did you not get herpes from touching the wood?"

By wood I mean May's wood. May Wilson was wooden at the time. I had tried to upgrade to a figure much like George Dudley, Otto Petersen's partner in crime. Man did that girl get around. One night we were scheduled to do a show at a run down strip club. I remember walking in with my suitcase and some dress that had pathetic written all over it, May even told me so that ho, and feeling like I already needed a bath. They were playing, "You Shook Me All Night Long" by ZZ Top. At the time I had gotten my young, stupid, pathetic heart broken. I figured this was what men wanted, right?

Walking in, there was a lot going on. There was a skanky girl on the bar top. So skanky it smelled like low tide and I was only standing by the door. The patrons, probably ex cons and others who were fated to have female company only if they paid because God did not bless them with looks tossed small bills her way. I took a look at her. If this was what dudes wanted I quit. It was another reminder that I had left my Sylvia Plath on the night stand. Yes, the brave poetess left by her less talented husband Ted Hughes for some hussy who too would later gas herself in an oven.

I have one words for Sylvia's copycat suicide half wit other woman Assia Wevill: Hack.

Immediately I felt like I didnt belong. I walked over to the bouncer, a big black bear of a man and babbled, "I am clearly not a stripper as you can see. I am here to perform in the comedy show. I do not know where to go." The black bear of a man laughed and patted me on the back. He said, "I figured. You looked out of place and were afraid to touch anything. Show is upstairs sweetheart."

How did he know I wasn't a stripper? Was I not tacky looking enough? Perhaps I wasnt even pretty enough? Maybe I nose wasn't bleeding because I didn't use it like a snowblower. Either way it was a knife to the heart, it was what guys wanted. May Wilson on the other hand wanted a job and wanted to see if she could start immediately. I mumbled going up the stairs, "I hate my fucking roommate."

Luckily my mother had mailed me penecilin. I was taking some as soon as I got home.

When I reached the top of the stairs I took a seat. The whole place said herpes, or this was probably where the last outbreak had occurred. Just then I was approached by a broken down middle aged woman. Her hair was a terrible blonde, almost if she got her style from the broken down 2 AM tranny at the Port Authority. The makeup on her face was melting off, partially due to the fact that it was cheap as the tips the woman downstairs was getting and partially because there was no air conditioning. She wore a tight fitting dress, that exposed breasts that were augmented, and were losing their luster as the whatever cheap stuff they were filled with was probably getting moldy. While her tried to suck it in, her stomach was losing it's lining and hanging out. And she wore lucite shoes. I did a double take. Was this a middle aged stripper?!?!?!

She turned around and bent down to pick something up. All I saw were ripples of cellulite. I didnt know whether to puke, turn to stone, or run. No wonder the strippers here were working for small tips. They were ugly. I was in a club with a bunch of ugly women who took their clothes off for money. No wonder the bouncer didnt think I worked here as a stripper. Not only was I so insecure about my body that I kept my clothes on, but I actually looked good.

A minute later the woman introduced herself as Darla. She asked if I was a new dancing girl. I explained I was not and was doing a comedy show. Darla said she knew about the show and was coming up to watch. I started to talk to her and while she was run down and had a few hard nights in her life she seemed to have a good heart. Hey, just because she be a ho does not mean she is evil.

Darla then said she identified with what I did because she too was a performer, and taking off your clothes was an art. When you got onstage it was an act. You had to think of what you were going to do beforehand, charm the audience, and have a start and finish not to mention a well thought out character. I nodded. While I was working hard to write jokes and learn my craft rather than reduce myself for the adoration and approval of men who probably learned to walk up right last week, I would give her half credit. Plus she acknowledged ventriloquism was a lost art form and perhaps older than the exotic dancing she herself partook in.

The entire time May Wilson screamed, "ASK HER IF THEY ARE HIRING!!!!"

Just then five other strippers came up and began to join the convo. While two were decent looking, for the most part they looked pretty banged up. It was six sex workers, a slutty doll, and a woman who never really had a boyfriend. This could have been a reality show. Just then one of the strippers who identified herself as Bambi explained that the owner was what she referred to as a "shit" and until things changed the strippers were not stripping. They were only working partialy nude. I asked what this would accomplish. Bambi who was stripping her way through law school and was in her sixth year-law school only takes three to complete-said it was because there was going to be a stripper strike.

Curious I asked what the greviances were. Candy, a red head who had danced at some of the top clubs before hitting thirty (her words) explained the owner was an "ass clown" and wasnt letting the girls keep their tips. Plus the stage fee was much too high. Stage fee? Then they explained you had to pay the club to dance. I began to feel sorry for these women. Perhaps they did have hard lives other than the fact they spent their spare time swinging from poles and giving others things that makes one burn when they pee. These women were working hard for their money. Those shoes werent easy to walk in. And guys if you cheat on your damn wife use a condom. That pole took some skill. This owner was an ass clown. Strike, strike, strike!!!!!

Just then the producer arrived. So did the comedians and the show began. The strippers as a part of their strike were dancing partially clothed downstairs, but when they were done, came up to enjoy the comedy show. Some were committed to the strike and skipped dancing all together and enjoyed the show. Not only did they all turn up and completed an audience when it looked like we would have none, but they laughed at everyone. I began to view these women less as sluts and more as friends that perhaps had taken a wrong turn.

May finally asked the question, were they hiring. Candi replied, "Our boss would pay you in nickles and dimes because you are fake. We only get small bills because we are human. Work at Scores. Not only are the guys kinkier but you will get more bang for your buck."

The night ended with me getting drunk with the strippers as they plotted the next phase of their strike. When the morning came, I finally got a cab home and wished them luck. I never did see them after that and never got an update on their progress. I hope the owner's heart softened and that he treated them better. Because one thing is for sure, no horny male wants a partially clothed woman, no matter how many rough nights she has had.

In case you are wondering, the next day I took my penecilin with orange juice and took a nice long bath. Actually two baths.

Love April

I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl

www.buybooksontheweb.com

877-Buy-Book