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the handsome loser

The life and times of a handsome loser. Humor. Love. Sex. Dating. Life.

Over Before It's Begun.

Thursday, July 20, 2006

Sadly, happily due to another internet project of mine taking off rather quickly, there will be no more from the Handsome Loser. I will not have the time to post on a regular basis and do not want to run one of those blogs that only updates once in a blue moon. If I can't put the time in I do not see the point. It's a shame, as I had so many more great stories to tell you. Thank you for reading. Goodbye.

Handsome.
posted by handsomeloser, 3:54 PM | link | 3 comments |

The Things That Made Me Laugh Today....

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

Are this and this.

They are both a little bit rude. Deal with it.
posted by handsomeloser, 2:26 PM | link | 1 comments |

Placing Empty Bottles Back In The refrigerator

Monday, July 17, 2006

I do it. I take a big slug of orange juice, finish off the bottle and then put that bottle straight back in there. This bothers some people to the point of Armageddon. I know this to be true as I've experienced the frustration and aggression that can follow my unthoughtful actions. There is no malice intended on my part. Laziness, yes. But malice just isn't what I'm all about. However, if someone chooses to point out this flaw in my character and- after the discovery of its emptiness- puts the same bottle in the fridge so that I can remove it next time I'm in there, well.... Well, that's just petty. And we all know the best way to deal with pettiness is to respond with even greater pettierness and just leave that bottle right where it is. If the enemy response is to then start placing other empty items back in the fridge, we have a situation where no-one is willing to place any used item from the fridge into the garbage. If this goes on for a week, there is little room in the fridge for the new things that have come to live there. If it goes on for TWENTY SIX days it's time to step back and reflect. No-one likes backing down after a stand-off like this but where can you go from here? The next step is literally buying a new refrigerator for the kitchen. I can't let it go that far, can I? Or is the 'unknown' of just how far this thing can go worth investigating?
posted by handsomeloser, 8:18 AM | link | 2 comments |

Allow me to recommend the wonderful.....

Saturday, July 15, 2006

Pandora.

It's a website that finds you new music you will like.

'How does it do this, Handsome? Please, tell us?'

Well, since you asked nicely, you tell Pandora songs that you like and, by analyzing those songs through some strange musical science voodoo kind of shit, it plays you other songs it reckons you will like. The thing is, it works. Not with every song obviously, but if you just let it play for a while you will find tons of good songs, often by artists you won't even know. My hard drive is ready to burst with the music I've discovered through Pandora. Yeah, I know it sounds like a heap of bullshit.

'It's music, not science, goddamn it!'

That's what I thought when someone recommended it to me. I knew it wouldn't hurt me if I gave it a try though. And it didn't hurt me. It didn't hurt me one bit.

(Although the song it's playing me right now is effing abysmal).
posted by handsomeloser, 7:07 AM | link | 3 comments |

So, girls, tell me this...

Friday, July 14, 2006

Many first dates seem to have a moment when I suddenly feel like I've been pushed towards the edge of a precipice and asked- very sweetly- if I'd like to jump in. That moment comes when a girl inevitably asks me that most awful of questions....

'So, Handsome, what movies do you like?'

Dangerous, dangerous times. Do I stick to the safe geek stuff like Star Wars or Lord of the Rings? Or, do I strap all the heavy things I can find to my body and dive right off the edge with all my favorite geek, Manga and cute Japanese girls in love with giant robots type stuff? I've laid it all on the line on first dates in the past but something usually happens to the girls when they get the no holds barred answer. Something behind their eyes just dies. The alarm bells in their heads ring so loud that I can hear them.

So, that's the question. Do I simply wear my heart on my sleeve and hope that one day a gorgeous vixen says, 'Hey, I collect World of Warcraft figures too?' Or do I take it slowly and wait until they actually, you know, like me before I unleash the full fury of my geek horror upon their unsuspecting asses?

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posted by handsomeloser, 3:18 PM | link | 5 comments |

Why do I call myself a loser?

Thursday, July 13, 2006

I like Maria and Maria likes me. The reality of that is perfectly simple and clear. No-one would dispute it. We work together and we're flashing smiles and coy looks back and forward like there's no tonight never mind tomorrow. I mean, we've got a rhythm going that Buddy Rich couldn't keep time with. We haven't talked much but that doesn't matter. We know what's happening and everybody else around us knows what's happening- the sexual tension between us is driving everyone else crazy, never mind ourselves.

'Why don't you just screw her already?' asks Janice.

She's usually the one who says what everyone else is thinking. She also intimidates me, so I just shrug.

'Why has nothing happened yet?'

Why? My loser defeatist, mentality, that's why. Despite being one hundred percent sure that Maria is absolutely crazy about me, I think it's only fifty/fifty whether or not she even likes me. See the logic flaw there? That's some screwed up psychology, not to mention mathematics, going on right there. I'm imagining how well Maria and I could click, so my inner prophet of doom cannot permit me to believe that things could be as simple as me asking her out and her saying 'yes'. I don't believe in such simplicity for me. There must be a big murky piece of the jigsaw yet to fall into place, right?

To miss out a few months of sleepless nights, a thousand hours of fretting over the myriad of worse case scenarios and numerous 'why don't you ask her out, you crazy asshole' type of comments, I get myself to the stage when I'm ready to step up. For some reason watching that great Michael Douglas movie, 'The Wonder Boys', sends me over the edge. I decide that the next day I will finally ask her out. Cue sleepless night number three that week.

In the morning we meet in the office and exchange a couple of those teasing little smiles.

'Next chance I get,' I tell myself.

I quickly get another three good chances but give myself miserable little chickenshit excuses for not doing it. It's looking like I'm going to let another day slip by except that late afternoon we end up alone on the stairwell. She's coming up. I'm going down. This is my moment. My desire finally smothers my fear and I'm ready. Completely, unmistakably ready. She takes a couple of steps up, I take a couple down, I open my mouth and... Slip and fall down the stairs. Crash and burn.

I badly damage the ligaments in my right ankle and suffer a small but bloody cut to my forehead. The physical pain was insignificant in comparison to my embarrassment. I couldn't stand that Maria had saw me do that. As she helped me up I quite literally wanted to die.

I never ask Maria out and I never really look her in the eye again. What would have been the point? Once you have become Inspector Clouseau in someone's eyes you can never become their Jack Bauer, can you? A month later she gets a new job and moves on. I've never see her since.

It's a little moment that sums up my life. That's why I call myself a loser.
posted by handsomeloser, 9:22 AM | link | 6 comments |

Zidane Headbutts Materazzi.

Zidane Headbutts Materazzi



Check out the video. This seems to be the biggest story in the world right now. Everywhere you look people are talking about it- a headbutt that took place in the World Cup final. Apparently the Italian guy called Zidane's mother a 'terrorist whore' and so Zidane decided to headbutt his nipples into oblivion. What amazes me is the speed that the internet works. It seemed that within seconds of it happening someone had created a little crude animation of Zinedine Zidane headbutting Scorpion from the Mortal Kombat games. Then Zidane with bull horns, then a fiery, flaming Zidane, then something else and something else.

It also shows how quickly something can snowball online. These two guys made this little comedy tribute and all of a sudden one and a half million people and counting have watched in on youtube. Amazing how small the world has become now. Can you imagine you and your friend making something like that a decade ago? Who would have seen it? Five people at most probably, if anyone would have even bothered making it in the first place. Now, however....

ZIDANE a new way to solve problems.. do it like zidane...



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posted by handsomeloser, 8:11 AM | link | 0 comments |

The Day Freddie Mercury Died

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

Queen Live



The story about singing Queen and getting my ass kicked by some hookers reminded me of another Queen story where I got into a fight. Now relax, there is nothing about the music of Queen that gets me foaming at the mouth and ready to punch peoples heads off. It was actually the day Freddie Mercury died. I was still at school, then. Over the previous six months my pals and me- we were the sort of 'wanna be in a long haired rock 'n' roll band' crowd in school- had really been getting into the music of Queen. We'd go over to each other houses- taking a few sneaky beers- and get the greatest hits on. We'd sing it word for word and try in vain to play the Brian May guitar solos on our cheap, acoustic guitars. They were great, great times that are bringing a massive smile to my face as I write.

So, I'm in English class and my teacher, Mister Tully, comes in. Mister Tully was a huge Queen fan. If you felt like slacking off a little in class you could just drop in a couple of mentions of Queen or Bowie or Led Zep and he'd go off on a big nostalgia trip about his seventies glory days- saved from Shakespeare for another day. Anyhow, Mister Tully was looking pretty down. In fact it was obvious to the class that he'd been crying. Seeing A male teacher so emotional, especially a tough guy like Mister Tully, was a shock. It subdued us for all of half a minute before one girl asked him what was wrong. He told us Freddie Mercury had died. Now, I don't know how many teenage boys were hugely affected by Freddie's death- it didn't create a fraction of the same teen hysteria as Kurt Cobain's suicide- but I was cut to the bone and then some. I couldn't believe it. I was becoming a man, I was developing my own tastes and opinions. Queen were the first band I'd ever got 'in to'. Freddie was the first rock star I'd loved and all of a sudden he was dead- obviously it wasn't actually all of a sudden, the world had known it was coming but I'd somehow missed all that. As I think back now, I can remember reading that Freddie, shortly before the end, had been forced to put in a public appearance to dispel rumours that he was dead. To me this was hilarious at the time but I just thought it was some quirky rock star behaviour, I hadn't known what was behind the rumours.

I sat there open-mouthed, numb, when a voice from behind me piped up. 'Freddie Mercury was a queer,' the leering, drawl said. I recognised it as belonging to Jimmy Moore. I turned, looked at his grinning, gargoyle face and I just flew for him. I managed to get a couple of punches in before Mister Tully pulled me away. I wasn't angry that Jimmy had called my hero 'queer'- My father had told me that Freddie was a 'big homo' long before then. I didn't see it as an insult. I was angry because his tone implied that because Freddie was 'queer' he didn't matter or, even worse, that it meant he somehow deserved it. I just lost control.

I got detention but it was a good thing. Mister Tully had two free periods that day and he came into detention as much as possible and the two of us just talked and talked about just how 'fucking much'- he actually said that, it seemed incredible then to hear a teacher swear passionately- we loved Queen and Freddie Mercury. For the next six months, the laser on my CD player only saw six CD's and they were all Queen. God bless you, Freddie.

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posted by handsomeloser, 5:52 PM | link | 75 comments |

Blog Template

You'll notice- if you've ever been here before- that I've changed the look of the site. The basic look I had before was somewhat dull. Not having any skill in that department, my lazy ass had a look and found some free Blogger templates provided by these nice boys.

I don't know who they are but I thought I'd give them a mention and a thank you. They've got some nice templates over there that you might be able to use. Check them out.

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posted by handsomeloser, 12:18 PM | link | 6 comments |

One Bad Date Among Many Part 3

Allow me to direct you, if I may, towards parts one and two of this 'mental scar inducing' date before you read on.

So, I vomit. Copiously. I do a damn good job of ensuring it all lands on me. All in my trousers, in fact. None on my shirt, none on my shoes and- most importantly- none on Leah. I take what small pride I can from that fact. The fairground worker laughs at me- to be fair, I'd be laughing at me too- and then gestures to someone to stop the ride. We slow down and I get up, sick falling off me onto the floor. I get out of the orb and go past the once more grinning fairground worker. I feel like doing something really violent- like brushing past him- but I know if I even look at him the wrong way he'll put his fingers in his mouth, whistle the code red and every fairground worker in the country will suddenly be surrounding me and removing my soft bits from my hard bits- Hey, I've seen it happen. Do not fight with the boys that work at the fairground. I don't care who you are, you will lose. The other 'spinners' look around, wanting to know why their orgasmic spinning has come to an abrupt halt. Then, of course, they all spot the vomit splattered asshole and laugh it up.

We get back on to solid ground and I just keep saying sorry. I'm humiliated. I'm officially the anecdote waiting to happen that came of age. I give Leah the chance to run that she must be waiting on and tell her to go on to the gig without me. She says, 'No. What do I want to do that for? We got to get you cleaned up first.' I had expected her to run like the wind but I had been wrong. A warm sensation flows through me and right then it feels like not giving up on me is the most wonderful, tender gesture a woman has ever made for me.

We get to the street but it's a Friday night and there's not an empty cab in sight. We try calling for one but it's going to be at least an hour. I have no plans to stand in vomit-covered pants with a beautiful girl for any longer than neccesary but getting back home quickly is sounding impossible. Then I have a brainwave. A guy I know, Steve, who's always been on the cusp of being called a friend, lives nearby. If he's in he might have something I can borrow. Maybe I can escape this soiled pants Poseidon after all.

It takes about ten minutes to get to Steve's. I apologize over and over the whole way. I have since learned that apologizing for the same thing more than twenty times is extremely off-putting to the ladies due to the pathetic, needy nature of it. Anyhow, we get there and Steve is about to head out the door. I explain the situation and he almost pisses himself laughing. 'And this is your first date?' he keeps saying again and again. 'Yeah. It is.' I ask if there's something of his that I could wear and it's here that the problem with this idea jumps up and bites me in the nuts. I'm six two and weigh a hundred and ninety pounds. Steve is five three with a top hat on and is a waif fit to grace the very best homo-erotic literature. Why hadn't this occurred to me before now? I don't know. I hear women talking a lot about the likelihood of them fitting into another woman's piece of clothing. You ever hear guys talking about that? No. 'Cos we don't think about it.

We leave Leah in the lounge and go into the bedroom. The trousers come off. They smell disgusting and they simply cannot go back on. I throw them into the sink to soak them. Steve's handing me different things to try. He's giving me jeans that I can't get past my lower thighs, pants that are shorter than my arms. It's undoubtedly the funniest moment of his life but I feel like crying. Eventually we find something that fits me. A pair of shorts. They fit because of the elastic waist and because they are designed to be long shorts on a small man. I look in the mirror and even I laugh. The radioactive yellow nature of them didn't allow me to keep a straight face. 'I need to wait here until a cab comes,' I say. 'No,' says Steve. 'I need to go now.' 'I can't go out like this,' I say. 'Give me a spare key, I'll lock up.' 'I don't have a spare key. I'd give you this but I'm heading out of town. I might not be back for the next few days. Put the trousers back on or wear the shorts.' I now had my very own 'Sophie's Choice.'

So, decision made, I'm standing in the street with Leah. The soaking wet, death smelling pants were not an option. I went for the bright yellow Bermuda shorts. We also found a dodgy t-shirt big enough for me to squeeze into- smart shirt and shorts isn't a good combo- but the footwear I was stuck with. So, picture it. Tight, bright yellow shorts, tight, purple 'Animal from the Muppets' t-shirt, black socks and smart black leather shoes, holding a plastic bag with vomit covered trousers in it. It was truly a disappear into the cracks in the pavement moment. Leah, who's tried to spare my feelings up to this point, can't hold back any more and just laughs her head off. 'Is there still a chance?' I'm thinking. Uh.... No.

Down in the street the silence has become uncomfortable. I dont know what to say. 'We could do something else.' I suggest, optimistically. She shakes her head. 'I think Ill just head to the gig alone,' she says. The vomit she could handle. The yellow shorts and smart black leather shoes were too much. I think she liked the Animal t-shirt. I nod and we part ways. I have to walk around like this for an hour before I manage to hail a cab. It was the definitive first date from Hell.

Don't worry though. I've got plenty more awful dates to tell you about. Plenty. It's the result of being the combination of 'tall dark and handsome' and 'geek loser'. The awful female encounters are seemingly endless.

(of course she liked the Animal t-shirt)

muppet show drums fight



Now them's the skills. Amazing.

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posted by handsomeloser, 4:44 AM | link | 1 comments |

David Hasselhoff - Jump In My Car- and My Nasty Little Knight Rider Story

Tuesday, July 11, 2006

David Hasselhoff



The man who I loved as a child has nothing to apologize for. Not even this. There is NO justification for ANYONE to criticise this piece of art. It is like the Citizen Kane of 'Hard Rock'. Led Zep have finally been bested.

My kid brother got a Knight Rider car for his Christmas one year and I was insanely jealous. So jealous that I threatened to tell our mother what had really happened to Grandma's 'priceless' Ming vase if he didn't give me it. He gave me it. Even though he loved it and I knew that he loved it, he gave me it and I took it. More than that, I banned him from playing with it. My parents couldn't understand why my brother wasn't interested in the Knight Rider car he'd begged them for all year. What a little shit I was, huh? I didn't even feel guilty until I was nineteen and he was sixteen- ten years later. I tried to give him it back then but he wouldn't take it. He said I had to keep it forever 'like a scar that would never let me forget the monster that I used to be'. It was such a funny thing for a young boy to say and yet it upset me that he wouldn't just take the car and absolve me. God, I love my brother. And I've still got the car.

The final part of the date is on its way, folks. It's coming.

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posted by handsomeloser, 5:25 PM | link | 3 comments |

Sexual Purposes

One other thing about, Allan. He makes soup. He makes a vegetable soup that requires one large carrot. The problem with that is the act of buying one large carrot. He told me that, even though he only needs one carrot, he always buys two carrots. 'Why's that, Allan?' I asked. 'Because once I bought the one carrot and the woman looked at me suspiciously. She obviously thought I was buying it for sexual purposes. The thing is, if I was her I'd have thought the same thing. So, I always buy two.' And this is how he really thinks. He truly, genuinely believes that if he only buys one carrot, the grocer will assume it is being bought as some makeshift organic dildo. So now you know, boys. Never buy a singular carrot unless you want to be known as a vegetable lover.

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posted by handsomeloser, 1:54 PM | link | 1 comments |

A Night With Allan, Flying Pizzas, Fighting Hookers and an Image Re-launch.

In between posts on my wonderful date, let me tell you about my friend, Allan. One night we were out 'on the sauce'. 'Drunk' seems a somewhat feeble description for our condition but it'll do for now. We'd been celebrating the fact that, after eighteen months of aborted attempts, Allan had finally asked out the girl at work he was crazy about. She'd said 'no' but that wasn't the point. The point was that, for the first time in his life, Allan had had the balls to ask out a girl. He was thirty two at the time and he had been out with girls before but never been the one to make the first step. With Allan, either the girl made the move or they were both spending so much time together that eventually they realised that were already kind of going out. I mean, this is a guy so unsure of himself that even if he was actually having sex with a girl he might be inclined to ask, 'Do you mind if I thrust a bit?' That's Allan.

Anyhow, we're celebrating this huge step in his life and we're wandering down the street attempting to sing Queen's Greatest Hits- the seventies one, of course- from start to finish. We're in the middle of Flash, when Allan decides that he's had enough of the messy Pizza in his hand and decides to throw it in the trash- from forty feet away. Suffice to say the pizza gets nowhere near the target. It hurtles through the atmosphere like a melted flying saucer and comes to rest, butter side down, on a woman's leg. We laugh and apologize and laugh more and realize that this is no ordinary woman. She's a hooker- a transvestite hooker and she's got a wide trail of tomato gloop and meatballs smeared down her leg. Foolishly, this makes us laugh even more. I mean, what a couple of assholes. Next, thing I know, in the blink of an eye, the hooker is beating on Allan.

At first, I'm still laughing, until it becomes apparent that this beating is starting to get serious. She- and she's a big for a she, even for a she/he, muscular, fit looking- wrestles him to the ground and starts kicking his ribs. Suddenly, it's not funny anymore and I have to do something. I drag her off- getting an elbow in the nose for my troubles- and all of a sudden there are other hookers around us, shouting and screaming, throwing slaps and kicks at us. I'm trying to calm the situation down but seconds later I have a pimp in my face. Eight seconds ago I'm giving it 'What do you mean, Flash Gordon approaching?' and now I'm getting my balls kicked in by prostitutes and being stared down by the most terrifying eyes God has ever seen fit to put in a human head. I try to explain to the pimp- yes, I am on the official list of people who have, in their lifetime, tried to explain themselves to a pimp- but I am told that I 'will shut the fuck up' and quite frankly I will and I do. Already, I'm imagining where my body is going to be dumped or if he's going to force me into the sex trade to rent out my handsome ass. The worst case scenarios come fast and furious but the pimp quickly calms the whole scene down. He tells us that we are to walk away and never return to his patch lest we wish to die. We explain that we will not be wishing to die in the near future and that he need not worry about seeing us again. We walk on, but not before he gives us both a couple of emasculating kicks in the ass.

The funny thing is, that's almost a typical night out for Allan. He is a disaster magnet. You probably know someone like that. Maybe it's you.

Anyhow, finally getting to the crux, Allan called me earlier and asked if I'd like to go out for a drink as he is 're-launching himself with a new image'. I said, 'What?' He said, 'I'm having an image re-launch.' I say, 'You're not David Bowie. You stack shelves in a supermarket. Shelve stackers don't have image re-launches.' He says, 'Why not?' and I don't really have a good answer to that. I suppose everyone is equally entitled to re-launch themselves if they feel the need. I'm intrigued by this because he's not the kind of guy who calls up and acts the clown. He's quite serious and deep and there must be something going on in his head. Anyhow, I'm going out tonight and if there's anything good to report, I'll let you know. Hopefully there will be no fighting with the ladyboys of the night this time.

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posted by handsomeloser, 4:51 AM | link | 4 comments |

One Bad Date Among Many Part 2

Monday, July 10, 2006

This is the second part of this post. I'm not saying you must adhere to the convention of reading things in order, though. Just giving you a nod in the direction of the initial post so that your enjoyment of my suffering may be enhanced.


So, I'm spinning and I think I'm going to be sick. Now, whether this nausea was brought on exclusively by the ride or partially by the fact that, before I got on, I'd thought of a worst case scenario that involved vomit, I don't know. What I did know was that I felt ill and a grinning fairground worker was coming towards me to spin my orb. He grabbed the outside of the orb and, like a master of his trade, spun us round at a speed that cannot be measured within the current limitations of science and mathematics. I felt my stomach do its best impersonation of the high seas. I didn't know what to do. Ask the worker to stop the ride for me? How completely pathetic would that look? How could I recover from that? In that instant, I'm actually imagining a conversation between Leah and her friends where they are discussing the loser date who went on a fairground ride and screamed like a little girl until they stopped it for him. I'm seeing no circumstances where THAT guy ends up in Leah's bed. None whatsoever. I will not be that anecdote.

I decide to hold on. To fight. The worker moves away, spinning other orbs. Leah asks me if I'm alright, which is embarrassing in itself but potentially a microscopic footnote if I lose it and spew on her gorgeous thighs. For about twenty seconds I keep the nausea at a bearable level but I see the grinning fairground worker head our way again and I know I am defeated. I am not strong enough to survive another of his specialities. I surrender. 'Could you stop the ride, please?' I holler over the thundering machinery and the pounding Snoop Dogg obsessed PA system. Leah laughs. At first she thinks I'm joking but a closer look at the cadaver color of my skin gives away the truth. 'Are you going to be sick?' she asks. I nod my head and scream 'Stop! Stop! Stop!' She joins in. Whether this was any concern for me or more a fear of the unpredictable nature of flying vomit released into a relentless orgy of joyous spinning, I couldn't say.

The fairground worker keeps saying, 'What?' to me. He pretends he doesn't understand me and in that moment I hate more than I've ever hated anything in my entire life. He sees what's happening to me- he's doubtlessly seen it many times before- and he's loving it. 'What? What? What? You want me to spin you,' he asks. 'No!' we scream back.

He spins. I vomit.

And it gets worse, folks. Believe me.

To be continued...

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posted by handsomeloser, 11:15 AM | link | 0 comments |

Wow, comments.

A pal of mine claims that he spent a year writing a blog and not one person, apart from himslef (why do I always write slef, when I mean to write slef?), looked at it. Can that be true? It can't be. Knowing his warped little mind and guessing what the blog would contain, I'm sure that there must have been a big bunch of perverts with their creepy-assed Google searchings that zeroed in on it. Anyway, it's nice to know a couple of people have made their way here already. So, cheers for the comments. I'd like to think I'll get the rest of my date experience to you in the next nine hours and six minutes or so.
posted by handsomeloser, 7:00 AM | link | 0 comments |

One Bad Date Among Many

Saturday, July 08, 2006

If you were to ask me what my favorite song or movie is, the answer you would get would differ from day to day. I love so many that choosing the one that beats them all will largely be based on the kind of mood I'm in at the time. I'm a fickle kind of guy. Things are much the same when it comes to choosing my worst first date. Again, there are so many 'good' ones to choose from. See, this is the problem with being a handsome loser. My face gets me so many opportunities for my brain to make a complete rhinos ass of myself. At the moment this is my current 'favorite'.

My friend Susie- who I suspect has been in love with me for a decade or so but that's a whole different story- has set me up on date with her friend, Leah. I'm in two minds over the whole idea of being set up on a date. I like that I get to avoid the terrifying ordeal of asking someone if there may be some ungodly reason that they might, in future, spend some time with me on a voluntary basis. Then again, I dislike the possibility/probability that I may be getting paired off with a monster- I mean, how hard is someone who's in love with you going to try here? By the way, I'm not talking about monster a in the physical sense. I mean, what if she's psychologically disturbed in some fashion? It's something I always fret over due to the disproportionate statistics of it, as pertaining to myself. One in every fifteen women is a nutjob. This is a truth universally acknowledged. Of the women I have dated, four out of every seven had unpredictable psychotic tendencies. I run through worst case scenarios in my head, each awful thought topping the last, before deciding that a date arranged by someone else may actually be less prone to worst case scenarios than one that my own cursed hand has been involved in.

So, I turn up. We didn't have anything arranged beyond a meeting point- yeah, I had to worry about what the hell I was going to suggest into the bargain- and when I arrive Leah- who, it turns out, is very attractive- suggests that we go see the rock band of an old friend of hers. This sounds good to me. A couple of hours of ear drum bursting noise will save me from the stilted, vein-popping awkwardness of first date conversation. Even if somehow things are going well up to that point, it's a couple of hours where I won't have the chance to say something that dispels any questions in her mind as to whether or not I might be a complete dick.

It's a nice, sunny evening. We decide to walk to the gig and on the way we pass a small fairground. 'Let's go ride something,' Leah says. I panic and I instantly scan the place for any rides that might scream 'painful twisted metal death' or 'paraplegia guaranteed' at my lame chicken ass. Thankfully, there's nothing there of that wild nature, just a lot of things with the common theme of spinning around. We choose a ride that has a particularly strong sense of that spinning theme running through it. I don't know what you'd call it but basically there's a large circular floor that spins quickly and on top of that floor are a collection of orbs that spin with the floor but also spin independently. Apparently spinning is the key to thrilling joy and happiness. Leah and I get inside one of the orbs, sit down, lower the dangerous looking safety bar and the ride starts up. Within twenty seconds I'm starting to feel sick. Unmistakably, stomachly sick.

To be continued.....
posted by handsomeloser, 5:07 AM | link | 3 comments |

Here's me, then.

Friday, July 07, 2006

'You need a gimmick. A hook. You can't just write a blog about your life. No-one will give a shit.'

This was the wisdom handed down to me from an unusually unwise friend of mine. The advice followed my determined declaration that I should 'do something on the internet like uh... write like a blog like... or something'. This notion of gimmicks and hooks was thrown around for a while. An idea came up- from him- that I should model underwear that women send to me and post the pictures on the blog. My friend was morbidly excited by the prospect of me posing in ladies undergarments and he was completely convinced that there would be thousands of women who would gladly volunteer their lacy drawers for this 'project'. He was so excited that within thirty seconds he was talking about the prospect of showing the blog to book publishers as it had great 'coffee table book potential'- a phrase he uses a lot. I was having difficulty imagining the Amazon customer reviews of 'My Life In Panties' when my friend shot the idea down himself. He had suddenly realized the dangers of placing materials from whereabouts unknown upon my bare assy flesh. 'Someone could sprinkle the underwear with some kind of chemical agent or weird, nasty herbal cocktail,' he said. I was a little disconcerted that he thought I would bring my precious genitals into contact with strangers mailed undies without actually washing the undies first but he was on a roll and I didn't want to burst his creative bubble. It was decided- by him- that my blog should not involve the risk of a chemical attack upon my manhood, so we- and by we, I mean him- moved on from that. One or two other equally bad ideas were mentioned by my friend (a blog based around ironing board swapping; or guys getting me to tell their girlfriend's that they are dumped via the blog). I rapidly rejected the idea of gimmicks and hooks and decided that I would just talk about my life- my odd life as a handsome loser. So, that's what I'm going to do.
posted by handsomeloser, 12:46 PM | link | 4 comments |