By Alex Nash
When my friend told me she had found the man of her dreams, I was over the moon, I swear! No, like really, I was sooo happy for her. I had the best intentions, the highest hopes. Just like the last time and the time before, her eyes lit up when she spoke, and I was thrilled to see that Cupid’s arrow had seemingly met its mark — seeing how many times it had before, I figured she would not be able to take another shot.
But when I met the rascal, I knew I could once again not stay silent. It was time for an intervention, so all the lovers out there with their hearts oh-so-ignorantly caught in the sweaty elbow of an ex-golfer can find their truth (and dump the bitch already). Anonymity will be ensured for all parties, except me because I am cool like that.
You might ask, how bad could he be? Oh, you innocent young fool, I bet you also thought road head was when you get a headache from driving, but that is not how the gear shift gets slippery, is it honey?
First of all, take a look at his hobbies:
You might ask what that gap is. Well, it is the space where one’s interests would go! Upon questioning, The Boyfriend explained that he “doesn’t really ‘do’ anything” but is “trying to cultivate the kind of personality of someone who goes to the arcade on the regular.” Yeah. Let that simmer.
His manners leave … quite a bit to be desired. One night, I returned to my precious dorm room to find him napping in my bed. (Leave your doors locked, kids.)
“What kind of Goldilocks shit is this?” I asked, rousing him and wincing at a strange odor emanating from my once-spotless sheets.
“Uh,” he began boldly. “I went to half of my RHMS lecture and got worn out when we had to think about oppression.”
And darling, do not EVEN get me started on their sex life. When the three of us went to play laser tag, I heard some desperate squealing from behind the giant foam toxic waste barrel. Imagine a goat. Now imagine another goat. Imagine one of those goats whispering, “Give it to me good, Big Dog” over and over. Punctuate this with the electronic peeeeew of the laser guns firing when they were — um, sat on, and you will understand why I had to leave the establishment.
I have tried to find the positives! With his shaggy hair and overgrown goatee, he could be seen in a rather roguish light. The year-round flip flops are an … intimate choice (he must love animals if he’s that generous with the dogs). His large plaid overcoat is a staple I can respect, but what I am not into is his use of the dozens of pockets inside it. Wait long enough (about ten minutes), and you will see The Boyfriend whip open his bagpipe-chic robe and extract a hard boiled egg from the lining like a knife salesman in an alley.
Has fear struck your heart? It should. Each pocket contains an egg or two for when he is feeling peckish. After all, food expiration must be a social construct.
You might ask, Rosalie, whyever would your well-rounded, multifaceted, anonymous friend go for such a man? You might also ask if I am capable of beginning a paragraph without the words “you might ask.” The answer to both is a fateful mystery. But the truth is, attraction can be a confusing thing. Remember that one Calvin and Hobbes comic where Hobbes is dressed up in a suit that got you thinking, “Is that stuffed tiger … sexy??” Or maybe it was something basic, like Jessica Alba’s juicy (insert body part here).
Whatever your nasty little kink — I mean sexual awakening was, nobody can control who they are into, even if it is a dogs-out egg guy with no interests or motivation whatsoever. Or at least, that is what I would say if I were a better person. In practice, why the hell is she not running her lovers by me to get vetted? #rude #selfish #getoverhimalready #andhangoutwithme.
If you or a loved one has been victimized by your friend having absolutely atrocious taste, I want to hear about it. The more love, freaks and facial grease your story contains, the better. Email The Mossy Log if this article made you, as a friend with great taste, feel seen.
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