The Overlord's Dating and Marriage Tips, Part 3

Keep complaining, Ladies. I have more of these. Like, so many more, you couldn't even imagine it.



Apparently, I have struck a nerve. More like several nerves. No,make that several hundred nerves.

One of the absolute worst things you can do in any walk of life, but for some reason it's infinitely worse when you're a blogger (probably because of the potential for what you write to be seen by millions), is to call a spade a spade.

Now, I'm sure that having used that quaint expression, there's at least 50 people ready to write me about what a raging racist I am. A pity, since my hood is at the cleaners, at the moment.

Actually, the absolute worst thing you can do is to be perfectly frank about what is totally obvious to anyone with three braincells to rub together, and a functioning nervous system, and if you truly wish to compound your galactic awfulness until it reaches full, Nazi-like levels of beyond-the-fucking pale, make sure that you tell inconvenient truths (sorry Al Gore) about women.

Never mind fireworks; things get all thermonuclear. Quickly.

Because Your Overlord is a wiseass, and because he secretly loves to torment the easily-triggered just for shits and giggles, I'll keep writing this stuff so long as there's someone who gets sand in her vag over it, or twists her tits into knots with unrestrained rage and the sort of ultimately pointless, hopeless fury that consumes someone that can do absolutely fucking nothing about it.

Yes, perhaps it's a mental disorder of my own, but I love a good laugh. There's nothing funnier than reading the unhinged (always poorly-spelled and grammatically-incorrect), sputtering, frothing, exasperated, indignant bitterness of  someone who is quite literally unable to reply to your salient points in anything resembling a dignified, reasoned, measured way that isn't, ultimately, all about them.

The accusation of being a "woman hater" is as common as discarded Plan B boxes in a sorority house, But nothing could be further from the truth. The would-be-Master of the Universe loves women. Couldn't be more smitten with the fairer sex. The problem is that real women are few and far between, and the vast chasms between examples are liberally strew with the disheartening human wreckage of the batshit insane.

Another amazing aspect to this phenomenon is the almost-by-rote response that begins with some version of "Not ALL women are like this, you know...", or "I can't believe that someone as disgusting as you is allowed to have a blog..." and ends with an impression left that a) Yep, ALL women are really like this to one extent or another, and the unalterable truth of b) Yep, I'm allowed...suffer!

The truly funny part is the personalization of everything.

The protests I get always revolve around two main theses:

1) The writer begins by telling me I'm sadly mistaken and then rattles off a list of her supposed virtues (proving some of my points), like I give a flying fuck. It's almost as if they either can't help themselves, or they're passive-aggressively interviewing for the post of Mrs. Overlord (which is already taken). Always, I'm supposed to recognize that the respondent, herself, is not at all like any of the stereotypes mentioned in the post, only to reinforce the impression that, yep, I've just heard from a stereotype.

2) One gets the general impression that what motivates the respondent, more than anything, is that she has noticed herself being described to an absolute T. She knows it; she doesn't like it, and for fuck's sake, someone is going to answer for it, so nasty e-mail time it is! I would surmise that nine-point-seven times out of ten, most people would ignore, completely, what I write here. It's that damned point-three percent, though, who get it into their empty heads that you've written specifically about THEM, and they feel they have to defend themselves.

Really what they're doing is engaging in denial, and perhaps deflecting, because, really, the person they're angry with is not me, only themselves. I just happened to make them stop and think for a second, and in that second, the entire fortress of denial they've built around themselves collapses, and exposes the truth to even them.

True to form, however, the more protest I get, the more nasty correspondence winds up in my box, the more vacuous responses I get from first-year Gender Studies idiots, the more unhinged invective I get from the truly stupid who don't understand (or care) what those squiggly red-and-green lines are for in the e-mail program, the more I hear from aging feminists currently rotting -- still unmarried and childless -- in a retirement home, the more I'll do it.

The Overlord has a vast store of knowledge and experience -- not to mention an extensive, and would-be-impressive-but-for-the-insanity list of Vaginas He'd Like to Forget -- and can churn out another ten or dozen stereotypes with as much thought as you put into your "You are disgusting....not all women are like that...you're a piece-of-shit-White-Male-Oppressor...I hate your fucking guts...you should die...here's my bikini/lingerie/naked pic...please call me?" misspelled, functionally-illiterate e-mails.

Don't make me have to post them to prove my point.

Don't make me post them and cause thousands of innocents to become sick to their stomachs.

Men, here's another ten (10) types of women you should avoid as if they came with simultaneous fatal doses of AIDS and Ebola.

1. The Super-Heroine
She can do anything. She's more-powerful than a locomotive, she can bend steel in her bare snatch, able to leap three dozen cocks in a single evening. She puts in 14 hours at the office and then spends her evenings spooning out third-rate dog food at the soup kitchen; she runs three 5k's a week and then teaches a tantric yoga class 30 days a month.

She has a Master's Degree in Kickass; she is the epitome of the Go-Gurrrlll culture. She's a juggler, par excellence, maintaining a hectic life that is a flurry of constant activity -- work, play, kids, hobbies, volunteering.

What she can't do, however, is manage the more mundane, but necessary, tasks in life.

What she needs is not a boyfriend/husband; she requires an enabler. Someone to do all the heavy lifting for her, so as to leave her free to live the lifestyle Cosmo told her she should.

This is, of course, all affectation. She doesn't really like yoga; she can't stand to run a 5k, she is fucking repulsed by the homeless dudes at the soup kitchen, but she feels she MUST do these things, she MUST follow a script not of her own writing, she MUST -- at the very least -- appear to be all things to all people, fulfilling a laundry list of mostly "for show" platitudes that society has decided are demanded of her, if she wishes to retain her place in a certain social circle.

This all about appearances. It's all about keeping the good opinion of people you wouldn't otherwise follow through your own front door, for the sake of emulating a lifestyle that exists largely outside of physical reality. A lifestyle that is spoon-fed to the poor woman through mass media. She eagerly eats this shit up because, for a variety of reasons, she has no choice.

She doesn't know who she really is. If it weren't for the copy-cat-follow-the-trend-live-up-to-the-fake-icon quality of her life, she might have no identity at all.

People who have no identity of their own usually suck at life.

You are not her lover. You are her personal assistant. It's your job to manage all the things in her life that fall outside of the pretense.

You buy cat food at 11:00 at night, because she forgot to, and then feed the little fucktard when he's batting at your face at 5:30 a.m., the poor animal having been conditioned to only expect food from the guy who only stays the weekend, rather than the woman who lives in "his" house.

You cook, because she can't. In fact, if it wasn't for frozen or prepared status foods bought at the local co-op or Whole Foods (the ultimate status symbol for the Incurably Hollow), she might starve to death before the cat does.

She can't balance a checkbook. She can't do laundry. In fact, she sucks at all the more pedestrian aspects of Real Life because she's too busy constructing a Fantasy to notice them. She's busy re-enacting her favorite episode of Sex in the City, or treating Working Girl as a how-to guide. This is the woman for whom articles like "152 things You Can Do With A Vagina That Are Guaranteed to Turn Him On" (none of which are true, considering they were typically written by lesbians who never asked a Man a damned thing)are written for. Because otherwise they wouldn't know.

Again, this is more about YOU than it is HER. She's a helpless case, and doesn't know any better. You, you Man you!, should, but there's something deep in your Pre-historic limbic system that says "opportunity for control" or "show this dumb broad what's what" that draws you in. The Sex is a bonus: it might be the only authentic part of her life, but that's only because she spends the rest of her time being so fucking phony.

2. The Tomboy
There is an old Roman expression that says "A friend is another self". In many ways, the tomboy is proof of that adage.

You think you've struck paydirt: she likes sports; she likes motorcycles or muscle cars; she drinks beer and not those foo-foo, faggy, frozen, cocktails with fruit and umbrellas in them. She enjoys going to Hooters. She bowls, or plays softball, and maybe, if you're really lucky, likes a good hockey fight as much as you do. She plays poker like a pro; 8-ball is her game. Give her a pitcher and a plate of BBQ, and she's in heaven.

She will not torture you with her squishy feelings (like anyone gives a fuck?). She will not regale you with the tale --told with a sickening glee -- of how she obtained the new linens on sale. She will not bring mentally-questionable dreck -- like Holiday-themed trivets -- into your life. She's as liable to be as ignorant of what a trivet is as you are.

No frilly dresses for this lass, no extravagant gifts necessary -- she's more-pleased by a Black-and-Decker Cordless than a De Boers Diamond. She thinks his-and-her's football jerseys are the shit, and can talk batting averages, fuel pumps, and tractor pulls all day long. You are in love.

You are mistaken.

For while this lady doesn't require the investment in high-maintenance that some other classes of women demand, her main attraction is that...she's almost like a dude...only with a vagina. This is not, so much, a romance, as it is a different form of bro-mance.

For if we take it as axiomatic that most Men would prefer to be in the company of other Men, this is the happiest of all mediums. This is what life would be if you had the capability to fuck your best bud without it getting all gay.

The other Guys will be jealous. They will be envious. You will be the hit of your social circle of thick-browed, back-haired, Manly Men, because you've brought a chick into the fold that is "cool".

Eventually, the Tomboy will do something, say something, that might cause you to question your own masculinity, and then the spell is broken. No one wants to be out-duded by a chick.

3. The Housegirl
Also known as "The Walking, Fucking Dictionary".

When you're an alcoholic with no impulse control and little direct knowledge of what you do on any given day, you wind up with one of these.

I wound up with two of them. There are, of course, others (which, sadly, make for really good stories, but are testament to the adage that "A stiff prick knows no conscience") who I managed to kick out after an evening,  or maybe a weekend, that never returned.

I would also like to point out that the Housegirl knows no set nationality; she is likely to be American, too, but it's just that these two examples happen to make the best story.

They are a phenomenon that is so unusual, so inexplicable, that you can't but help but chalk them up to some sense of Divine Comedy, or most likely, the chemical inebriation.

I literally cannot explain either of these women. There's just too much left unexplained, too much information missing, too many gaps in memory. All you know is, that one day, you're trying to sleep off a hangover of Biblical proportions and the doorbells rings. You open the door, and there she is: complete with luggage.

You may vaguely remember her, but your attempts to question her so as to fill in the blanks of your own memory meet with an obstacle.

She doesn't speak English.

How the fuck did I manage this?

In any case, the Housegirl is in some sort of trouble, has some sort of problem with someone, got evicted, whatever the case may be, and because you brought her back to your place once or twice -- and you may be the only American she "knows" -- you now have a houseguest.

Well, because you're not a total shitheel, and because you have poor judgment, you let her stay. At least until you can figure out something else to do with her, and I mean that in the most-correct fashion. I mean, sure, she's putting out -- mostly from gratitude, sure -- but the last thing you need is a woman in the house (because that means all the other women can't come into the house, natch), and the language barrier makes things exceedingly difficult, even if you did manage to pick up a few words.

So, you make the best of it, as it's a temporary (for you) situation. However, the Old Country Code of Conduct kicks in, and this bundle of grateful sex you don't have to (can't!) talk to eventually becomes your worst nightmare.

Long story short, life quickly becomes a torment because your obligated houseguest sees fit to wash everything in the house fifty two times, even the stuff you haven't worn in two years, and requires a constant supply of quarters for the laundry room. You find the food you like does not meet with her Old Country Tastes, and are amazed when you give her money to buy what she likes that she comes home with a 50-pound bag of rice that she lugged through subway and ferry from Flushing to Staten Island, or a piece of the cow that would rate as"Non-Edible" in three-quarters of the civilized world, but which is considered "a delicacy" in her remote part of Ukraine, or Estonia, or Poland, or wherever the fuck she came from.

There is nothing you can do for yourself. Gratitude compels this woman to jump to her feet the minute you flinch. She will do everything for you; get you ice, get that beer, clean everything within an inch of it's life, see to your every need, whim, or care, to the best of her ability. It's like having a slave.

And that gets old very, very quickly. Like within a week, quickly. if you ever wondered what it was like to have a servant, I can dispel the illusion for you: it sucks. Royally.

And eventually, you find yourself locked in the bathroom, frightened to death that this ever-present person will break through the door, any minute now, to wipe your behind for you, and it is at that particular moment that you realize that this chick gots to go.

One I sent back home to Korea. I bought her a one-way ticket to Seoul, and gave her some money to set herself up once there. Never heard from her again.

The second I called Immigration on. Because I'm a bastard. Likewise, no, thankfully, contact at all.

It is usually then and there, standing in the Departure Lounge or watching as ICE removes the unwanted wart from your existence, that you resolve -- then and there -- to stop drinking, and stop hanging out in places where foreign women of extremely loose morals -- and questionable taste, considering your own actions -- congregate.

4. The Complex Trawler
Also known as "Nanner-puddin' Nancy" or "What you get when you drag a $20 bill through a trailer park".

When I moved below the Mason-Dixon Line for a short spell, there was, of course, a bit of culture shock. Being born-and-raised in New York City, I had, stupidly, assumed that most people were, in their own way, no different than New Yorkers in most respects. I had, naturally, heard the expression "Southern Hospitality", but never had experienced it.

By the end of the first week, I was beginning to think I had experienced enough.

One of those quaint, Southern institutions that carry a whole lot of unexplained cultural baggage is the phenomenon of the "Welcome Wagon". For the uninitiated, this occurs when a new neighbor moves in; it is customary to arrive at their doorstep with a welcome gift -- always in the form of deep-fried food or baked goods -- to "welcome" them to the neighborhood.

There are, of course, unspoken ulterior motives, which become painfully clear after a short time, even if you do have to wait for a Southerner to beat around at least three bushes before he/she gets to his/her point.

To begin with, the visit is more than purely social; they are there, politely, to interrogate you. Where are your from? What do you do? What church do you attend? Do you play golf? Which ACC or SEC school did you attend? You're not one of those uppity Yankees who came here to tell us how to do things, are you?

Another of the unspoken ulterior motives is to determine your marital status. It is usually undertaken either by elderly aunts and grandmothers or over-involved mothers on behalf of someone "you simply must meet", but is hidden for good reason (the sight of her once put a cow into premature labor), or is simply not here by virtue of geography (my niece in Tallahassee, or my granddaughter in Tuscaloosa, but in any case, at least 500 miles from here). This is a match-making endeavor.

There is a second variety, though, and this consists of all -- or most -- of the single ladies in your apartment complex paying visits bearing apple pies, 'nanner puddins, casseroles plates, fried chicken and biscuits, and all of it, it seems, with a great, big, side of fucking grits.

I hate grits. I dislike them intensely. Mention, politely, that you aren't a fan of grits, and the response you get is "well, you ain't tried MY grits, yet", as if your physical revulsion at the very sight of what is -- for all intents and purposes -- animal-feed-quality corn will magically disappear just because she added copious amounts of Velveeta to it.

Like the first group, they are there to evaluate you as a person, and potentially, as a mate. That's the point of bringing food: they want you to know they can cook. It has become a competition among the single girls in the area as to who will land the New Meat first.

And guys, if you happen to be a Yankee with a good job, you can read without moving your lips, and still have all of your original teeth, they love you even more. You are a breath of fresh (non-inbred) air, compared to Cooter, Cletus, Jethro, and Skeeter. You have "class" because your car is not festooned with antlers and a gun rack on oversized tires; you are "sophisticated" because you won't eat that shitty, mass-produced, supermarket brand Mozzarella cheese; you will hold a door open for a lady, you will pull out her chair for her, your "adorable" accent just gives her the vapors, bless your lil 'ol heart.

You shower daily! BONUS!

This woman is on the hunt, Boy, and she's hunting YOU. You could be the biggest dick in the world, and to her, you're still a prize compared to what she's used to. The more-determined (or, as they say in the South, "longer in the tooth", i.e. older, as in "not married after 19 nor before 30") will pull out all the stops in her quest to land you.

This is the best of both worlds: all the friend chicken you can eat, and all the gratuitous sex you can handle.

The stink of it is, though, that what she's really after is not so much you -- even if you are definitely trading up for her -- as much as she's determined to put an end to the ceaseless conversation, and rampant speculation,  regarding her spinsterhood, sexuality, and ability to "find her a man". She's fixin' to land you, Dumbass, because it's the only way to escape the judgmental hell of a landscape where everyone knows everyone else, and everyone is into everyone else's business for lack of anything productive, or better, to do.

She ain't married yet, and the Pastor is askin' Momma about that.

She ain't married yet, and the guys at the Circle K -- between spitting tobacco juice -- expressed the opinion that she's either one of them thar lesbians, or there's somethin' wrong with that child.

You know, Billy Ray, who has a good job changing batteries at the Goodyear, is after her, and I don't rightly know why she ain't more amenable to him, seein' as how old she's gettin'. He just got his new teeth, and all, too.

You know, your sister married young, and she and T.B. (those are both his initials, and the malady he carries) have a good life, what with their own double-wide and the five kids, only three of them retarded, and that gorgeous monster pickup, why can't you be more like her?

This woman just wants the talk, the rumors, the innuendo, the pestering, the badgering to stop.

And then she finds out you've been playing hide the salami with the other women who brought you food, too, and threatens to go all Texas Book Depository on your ass. After all, dammit, she thought you liked her biscuits best. But before she gets Daddy's shootin' irons out there's more than likely to be a massive brawl between two or more ladies on the Welcome Wagon, being egged on by the others who's advances you've spurned just because you don't like her homemade livermush.

This is Hee-Haw with sex. A real-life episode of Jerry Springer, complete with all the lower-middle class mental disorders you can imagine.

If you ever find yourself in a Southern, urban environment, find yourself a good "Country Girl" with something of a pedigree -- a prominent family, a college education, some sort of professional -- you'll have more fun and save yourself a potentially-fatal gunshot wound and guest-appearance (as the corpse) on The First 48.

Although, this, too, comes with some potential dangers. See below.

5. The Pillar of the Community
Also known as "Doctor Jekyll and Mrs, Hyde".

I think this one, more than anything, is another of those quaint, Southern institutions, because I have yet to meet one north of the Tidewater.

Simply put, this is a woman who -- in public -- is a paragon of virtue. She is a church-goer and takes great pains to be seen every Sunday morning. She wears elaborate hats and fancy dresses on Kentucky Derby day, complete with white gloves. She may be a professional woman, or a doctor, or comes from a prominent family that no one would ever in a million years think ill of.

But behind closed doors, she's more than willing to show off her latest selection from the Victoria's Secret Unabashed Slut collection, insisting that she's "never done this before" as she expertly opens your zipper with her teeth.

This woman is a whirlwind of sexual abandon.

It mostly stems from repression. She is expected "to set an example" by a regimented, Southern Christian upbringing, which is sometimes mixed with an Old-Money-Daughters-of-the-Confederacy-Gone-With_the-Wind kabuki play that the family insist be put on so as to separate them from their social inferiors. She is expected, and it is demanded of her by peer pressure and family considerations to at all times, to be a perfect representation of the genteel, well-heeled, unflappable Southern Lady.

She literally cannot WAIT to be someplace where someone she knows can't see her, and do things that everyone she knows does, but never admits to.

In short, she's attempting to experience the kind of life, the personal life, that culture, social standing, family requirements, and 100 summers at Bible Camp have, thus far, conspired to keep her from living.

Ride 'em, Cowboy!

However, there is a dark side to all of this pent-up sexual repression.

For a start, she will always be looking over one shoulder. She's paranoid that she'll be found out. Most southern towns and cities are really small places, and the odds that you will run into someone on the street that you know (or who knows your family), or that a similar person will spot you getting your freak on in a way that Pastor Bob would disapprove of, are real dangers. To her, at least. They are dangerous circumstances because another aspect of small-town Southern living is that people have nothing better to do than a) gossip, b) judge others, and c) act shocked and appalled by "scandal", which gives them all a chance to morally preen themselves and strut about as if they're all angels.

And there ARE some considerable risks for this kind of woman, particularly social, and particularly because people are fucking stupid, and this week's rumor and innuendo becomes next week's established facts, complete with reports from a dozen people who know less than you do, but who are regarded as a reliable source because of their connections to church, society, wealth, or what have you.

You are a guilty pleasure, and usually nothing more. Should paranoia begin to set in, you will see less and less of her. Should wind of a rumor reach her ears, you'll likely be cut out of her life, entirely. The kiss of death in this relationship is when she receives an unsolicited visit from the local Pastor or even Sheriff, but in any case a "respected" local "authority figure" who will hint with all the subtlety of a falling anvil that "he's heard something" and is only "looking out for you and your family", seeing as how quickly rumors spread.

The truth is he's either a fucking busybody, too, or jealous.

This is never going to be good for you. She is a slave to social conventions that were established by generations of dead antecedents, which can never be broken. This relationship either takes the form of serial on-again-off-again encounters dictated by her sense of paranoia and innate guilt, or they end as abruptly as they started.

In any case, this carnal tete-a-tete comes to an end as quickly as it began.

6. Bait
Also known as "The Honeytrap".

Strictly-speaking, this woman has no interest, romantic, emotional, or even rational, in you. She is not driven by carnal desire, she is not seeking love, she isn't even forced to keep company with you by the simple need for human companionship.

No, this woman is on a mission. Like she was a secret agent, or something. She has a goal which is not immediately clear, but which becomes so soon enough.

Because this woman is a mind-numbed robot, programmed to go forth and seek out the dim-witted, the lonely, the losers, the marginalized, the outsiders, the people who seem disconnected from the rest of society.

She appears when you least expect it, offering something you weren't looking for, but which biology and the male penchant for opportunism dictate you must take. She's skilled; she's willing; she's eager.

And the next morning she'll talk about her church.

Or her cult.

Continuously --- until you call a cop, or just leave.

Her job, as it were, was to dredge the depths of the sewers of society in order to find The Worst Possible Examples of Humanity. You fell into that category because you either are, or you happened to be where her Svengali told her she would be most likely to find those types. Sometimes, these woman will take jobs as strippers, and such, because the supply of potential converts/recruits/victims is practically endless in such dens of iniquity (or so I've been told...).

You see, her job is to fuck you...and then save you.

She is well-equipped (literally and figuratively) for this job because of the stinking dungheap hell her own (former) life was, before she "found" whatever it was that "saved" her from whatever internal Purgatory was rattling around inside her head.

She may have once been an addict of some kind; she might come from an incredibly fucked-up family dynamic; she might have been an orphan or raised in foster care; she may have been the victim of some form of abuse; she just might have been born crazier than Elizabeth Warren, and very often, all of them at once.

In any case, whatever it is she's been pulled into satisfied a variety of primal needs. Maybe it's the first time she ever felt herself to be a part of something, perhaps her new cult replaced the missing family, possibly the regimentation of a religion or something gave structure to an erratic life. Whatever it is, she wants to share it...with everyone. She literally believes that this...whatever it is...is a cure for everyone's ills. She actually believes she's engaged in missionary work in the Missionary Position, and it's an act of personal salvation, as well as her Cosmic/.Christian/Buddhist/Purple-Spaghetti-Monster duty to a fellow soul.

What she's doing, however, is nothing of the sort. Someone has taken advantage of a damaged person and turned them into a whore for _______.

And it's usually the sort of organization which, naturally, preys upon people in circumstances similar to her own, with backgrounds similar to her own, with mental disorders similar to her own, and the overriding goal of it all is to put money in some oily douchebag's pocket. That the oily douchebag can claim to be a "Man of God" or holds the "Spiritual Secrets of the Universe" is probably the only thing that keeps his ass out of prison. He runs his scam from behind a facade of religion or community service.

Simply put, if some hot chick you've never met, that you haven't made eye contact with, haven't spoken to first, comes wandering up to you and then sits next to you or even in your lap unbidden, and looks at you with those great, big, vacant, thousand-yard-stare eyes, and either strikes up a conversation or whispers something provocatively filthy in your ear, tell her to fuck off.

Yes, it just might be some stupid, horny chick on the make, or it might be the Public Relations Department of the People's Tabernacle for Intergalactic Nirvana or whatever looking for a recruit and a sucker.

The last thing you want is for a one-night fling (because once you're committed, you're probably never sampling her charms again)  to end with you dressed all in black, drinking a Vodka-10W40-and-Percocet cocktail and tying a garbage bag around your head, waiting for the Mother Ship to come, after having your pockets picked clean by a mental patient with pretense and a following of bigger mental patients.

There's another aspect to this type that cannot be stressed enough:

Sometimes, these girls are part of a robbery team. Their goal is to find a mark worth robbing, get him into a vulnerable or compromising position, while her cohorts rob him. Sometimes, she doesn't even have a cohort; she just expects you to fall asleep or pass out drunk, eventually, and then she'll help herself to whatever she can manage to get away with.

7. (un-) Social (in-)Security
Also known as "The Watchdog".

You literally cannot fathom how this happened to you. You met a girl, she seemed agreeable enough, perhaps you had a good time once or twice, and something compelled you to make this a more-regular arrangement. By the fourth or fifth date you have been buried under an avalanche of someone else's mental diarrhea, and can't figure out what the attraction in this fucking psycho ever was.

Suddenly, today is your first day in prison.

It becomes shockingly apparent that what you got yourself here is a bona fide psychobitch who is determined to use her own insecurities and phobias to ruin your life, and to be ever-present, whip in hand, to ensure that you don't get any bright ideas about being independent, and shit like that.

She will hound you with phone calls or text messages, demanding to know what you are doing at all hours.

You didn't return her call or text immediately. What the fuck is wrong with you? Don't you know you have a girlfriend? You were up to no good, weren't you? No, the fact you were being given a traffic ticket at that very moment is NOT an excuse.

Thinking of going out with the boys for the night? Fat fucking chance, Son! Not on her watch!

You had best keep your eyes firmly fixed on her and not on the exquisitely slutty redhead with enormous cans just at the edge of your peripheral vision. There will be hell to pay if she catches you sneaking a look.

No, we're not going out tonight, because that place (wherever it may be)is full of skanks, and she doesn't trust you as far as she can throw you, so we're going to cuddle up in a semi-frigid embrace on the couch where I can keep an eye on you and be "a couple".

A couple of what is the question.

This woman is deeply insecure. Like Hitler or Stalin levels of insecure. If you were to look up "insecurity" in the dictionary, her picture would be there next to the definition. The DSM V has an entire chapter devoted to her.

Ultimately, all of this insecurity destroys your social life, if you let it. You do not have any spare time. You have no time for yourself. Social activities you used to enjoy are gradually stripped from you by a fear of incurring the mental wrath of a self-hating banshee. Eventually, you have no social life. If it goes on long enough, you won't even have a "social".

In hindsight, the UnSocial InSecurity sufferer should have been easy to spot. She's the one who wouldn't look you in the eye when you spoke to her. She was the one who never had anything good to say about herself in conversation.She usually had nothing but venom to spew about other women. She seemed overly-conscious about her looks, always comparing herself to someone else (unfavorably). She applied her make-up with a trowel, or perhaps went a bit too heavy on the perfume, as if she was attempting to hide something. She might be obsessed with what she sees as a personal abnormality or imperfection that she just cannot stop talking about.

Now that she's managed to trap you, Heaven knows how, she's determined never to lose you. Your life, or what will soon remain of it, will be under constant scrutiny 24/7/365. She will spend her time concocting fantasies about what you might be doing when she's not there, each new one more untethered from reality than the previous one. Eventually, she works herself up into a fit of outright panic that can only be cured by the sort of surveillance you've only read about in Orwell's "1984", and thanks to modern technology, it becomes so much easier for her to allay her own fears, soothe her own psychoses, and exert some form of control over you from long distance than was ever possible before.

This woman is a walking time bomb.

8. The May-December
Also known as an "Aunt Judy".

Like most things in Nature, the convention of older men seeking out younger women has it's oppositional counterpart, too. Sometimes, older women seek out younger men, and for very much the same reasons: the attractions of youth cut both ways.

In short, this is an older woman who's after a little younger ass. And other parts, too. They're quite common, these days, as plastic surgery, ubiquitous gym memberships, a variety of libido-enhancing drugs (for both sexes), and more-active lifestyles among the older set can often make it difficult for a younger man to accurately gauge the actual age of a potential sexual conquest.

You are aware that she's older than you are, but you have no means -- short of her confessing, and Son, women lie about their age continuously -- of finding out. The skill of the modern plastic surgeon is both surprising and shocking in it's results, so that a woman of 45 can easily appear to be 30, a woman of 50 to be 40, and in some instances, some women past that age can manage a 25-year old bod, with minimal suspension of disbelief.

However, this is not really a romance. This is about having a Boy Toy, a physical affirmation that she's "still got it", even if "it" came at great expense and extensive hospital stays. There might even be a bit of a creepy, convoluted maternal instinct (on her part), or some form of fucked-up-Oedipal-like shit (on your behalf) at work, too.

Long story short: this is a fling. Actually, to call it a fling is to suggest that it has/had more substance than was originally the case.

If there's a silver lining to any of it, it is this: that chick probably has moves you don't even know about, have never seen before in your life, which might even beggar your imagination.

The term "Aunt Judy" originated in porn; it refers to an older woman, perhaps one even known or related to you, who you would consider schlonging under the right circumstances.

And yes, ladies, that's how fucked up we are in the head.

9. Bruno
Like the Tomboy (see above), the Bruno also eschews showing very many feminine qualities, but unlike the Tomboy -- who's femininity may be subdued, but still obvious -- the Bruno presents you with nothing but a blank canvas.

She's vaguely female, except, perhaps for the squareness of her form. She doesn't have so much soft contours as rough edges. She might be a bit pudgy, but rarely grossly obese (That would be The Landwhale, see next installment). She probably has habits that would tend to cast her femaleness into question, like chain smoking, cursing, a preference for hard liquor, but she's not (quite) a lesbian...yet.

She's certainly started the journey, though.

Typically, the Bruno (named for the stereotypical, square-headed, no-necked, perhaps hairy-thumbed goons of Mafia fame) is one of those women who just happens to be big. I mean, like really big. Like 6' tall. And rather than being athletically built, she's rather sturdy, strong, and would probably make a good native freight handler if you were traversing the jungles of the Amazon, or perhaps scaling the heights of Machu Pichu.

And "Amazon" might be a more-accurate description, only without the implied beauty. For the Bruno is not pretty, at all. She's not exactly horrid-looking, either, but no one is busting down her door to get her into the Sports Illustrated Swimwear Issue.

The attraction in the Bruno is the sheer size of it all. Evolution has played a mean and dirty trick upon us Men, for we are uncontrollably driven, sometimes, to lay the pipe to something that's only a shoe deal and a contract away from playing in the NFL or NBA. The woman may not define grace, but she sure as hell exudes strength. Pheromones and monkey-thinking conspire to ensure that , sometimes, the Bruno gets lucky.

She may not be your first choice, but you know damned-well you've done worse, Asshole.

Totally reversing course here, I will speak up in favor of Bruno on specific grounds; she's probably the most loyal of friends you'll ever have, you'll probably be able to speak about subjects with her that you'd never in a million years dream of bringing up with another type, and she just might be the sanest, most-down-to-Earth woman you've ever come across in your life.

Added bonus, she makes an excellent wing man. She'll talk you up like you've paid her to do it.

She's just not very attractive,and you don't want your friends to know you've sampled the waters.

And she's cool with it!

10. Messy Bessy
Also known as "Dear Lord, What did I ever do to deserve this?"

There is much to recommend Bessy. She's usually attractive, often incredibly so. She might often have an interesting or unusual occupation. She's smarter than your average woman by leaps and bounds. She has an accommodating, pleasant nature, devoid of the ungodly, bullshit "chip" that Modern Feminism has blatantly placed on every woman's shoulder which makes interacting with some of them an exercise akin to wrangling rattlesnakes.

She seems well-adjusted, pleasant enough, but this is camouflage.

For beneath that thin (often VERY thin) veneer of having it all together, Bessy is a fucking Three-Mile-Island-Meets-Fukushima-Meets-Mount-Vesuvius explosion-waiting-to-happen of total and all-encompassing insanity. You just haven't been adequately integrated into her on-the-verge-of-epic-collapse mental instability yet.

Bessy leaves subtle, but in retrospect easy to comprehend, tidbits in her wake that are the initial indication that something is colossally, perhaps galactically, wrong with this broad.

Initial indications of a mind in disarray may include, but are not limited to, the following:

Crippling indecision, even in the most trifling of choices. When a selection from a menu requires input from four waiters, a circular thought process that ends where it began, only to begin anew, when the choice between two items of identical nature (perhaps differing only in color) requires an hour of internal debate which quickly becomes two hours of external debate, when your opinion is solicited at every conceivable moment, and then rejected, only to be asked for again, you know you're not dealing with a rational person.

Likewise, when every minor disagreement or discomfort is inflated until it becomes, alternately, one of those moments when you must "evaluate the state of our relationship" (which can only end in a negative for her, despite your pleadings to the contrary), or an event requiring a convening of the U.N. Security Council. There is no in-between stage: we're either in continuous "negatively evaluating her" or "full-blown-international-crisis" mode. This results from her own inability to regulate, or even understand, her own emotional state.

Bessy tends to have a bit of  a temper. It is typically triggered by impatience, which is weird because the woman who can't decide between the New York Strip and the Shrimp Scampi suddenly develops an insatiable need for surety and conviction. At least for a second or two. Her temper tantrums take a rather questionable route: first she stamps her feet and makes a show of anger, then she cries, then she blames you...even when you have nothing to do with it...and then the cycle of indecision begins again: it might be your fault, it might be her fault, do you think, blah, blah, blabbity, fucking blah.

This, of course, results in a new round of relationship evaluation, in which Bessy finds even more faults in herself that puts the Pentagon on DEFCON 2.

Bessy's major problem is that she lacks self-confidence. She has all the tools to be a confident person, but she's never learned to use them.

In the meantime, Bessy's predilection for repetition (a form of OCD?), her massive and sometimes unexpected mood swings, her inability to deal with anger, frustration, or disappointment (NEVER disappoint Bessy: she might actually kill you, unless that means we're breaking up, and why can't we just re-evaluate our relationship, assuming she doesn't ask you to recommend a good murder weapon before rejecting your advice) is a painful chore.

Bessy, it seems, may have acquired a college diploma, she might be the tops in her field, she might be -- neuroses aside -- considered quite the catch, but mentally she's still a tortured, conflicted, confused, unsure, pessimistic wreck of a 12 year old girl. Her mind is racing at 200 mph in a 55 zone from one extent of crazy to another.

It can be fun to watch, sometimes, but not to live with.

UPDATE: Stupid me, I forgot...Parts One and Two here.