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why can’t i fight girls?

5/2/10 04:04 - why can’t i fight girls?

i love women. but some of you need your faces smashed in, or at the very least, sav­agely beaten by that ugly fuck­ing hand­bag you’re car­ry­ing around.

i went to a hockey game tonight (ottawa vs van­cou­ver). first inter­mis­sion, me and a friend went to get a beer. as we’re walk­ing back to our seats, this girl comes careen­ing around a cor­ner from the wash­room, talk­ing on her phone, not pay­ing atten­tion to her sur­round­ings, and crashes right into me, knock­ing the beer cup out of my hand — right as i was about to take a sip. the cup flips over against my face, spilling down my shirt and one side of my leg.

there’s a moment of dev­as­tat­ing silence as we both soak in the sit­u­a­tion, and instead of apol­o­giz­ing and not mak­ing a scene like a nor­mal human being with a func­tional brain, she throws her hands out to her sides like a flut­ter­ing chicken, waves them around like some­one lit her on fire and screams, ‘ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!’

i stand there shocked. she continues.


like any proper train­wreck, the dis­as­ter area becomes a sud­den attrac­tion. a crowd slowly builds around us. i blink. ‘you’re the one bumped into me,’ i say with the it-was-your-fault-are-you-a-fucking-idiot-or-something tone of voice. she does not take kindly to my ver­sion of the events, starts scream­ing some more obscenities.

of course, it’s a hockey game so testos­terone is fly­ing around every­where like a bad fart in an ele­va­tor. pre­dictably, some portly white knight with a chin strap who doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talk­ing, which is typ­i­cal of chin-strap wear­ing fuck­tards, steps into the batter’s box and tries to be a hero.

is there a prob­lem here?’

i’m say, ‘no. she ran around the cor­ner, bumped into me, and started screaming.’

the guy, prov­ing my first impres­sion of him as a brain­dead stu­pid fuck cor­rect, ignores what i say, and replies with, ‘you bet­ter leave her alone!’ and puffs out his chest like a big man.

awe­some­ness ensues.

the girl, with her sword-swinging superhero-with-a-gut at her side, turns on the taps full blast and here come the water­works. tears, like the great red sea, parts on either side of her face and streams down her cheeks, destroy­ing the care­fully painted mas­cara and sculpted foun­da­tion she was evi­dently re-applying in the wash­room before this earth-shattering inci­dent occurs. she ends up look­ing like that chick from the ring that comes out of the tv and eats people’s souls, all the while sput­ter­ing out con­fused gib­ber­ish about how i ruined her out­fit and her night, while i’m stand­ing there look­ing at a very small splash of beer near her shoul­der. to make mat­ters worse, her top is some sort of cheap, thrift-store t-shirt that was prob­a­bly way fuck­ing cheaper than the six­teen dol­lars i paid for my beer (and if you’ve ever been to a sport­ing event, you know drink­ing is not cheap at arenas).

i am mostly dumb­founded because while the girl is gen­er­ally smartly dressed in low-maintenance cloth­ing which would, on any other day, give me the impres­sion she wouldn’t flip the fuck out if a drop of beer gets on her shirt and instead be the kind of girl who laughs it off and quips wit­tily about how she needs to get out of these wet clothes and then we’d pro­ceed to have sex, get mar­ried, and pro­duce the grand­chil­dren my mother has been pres­sur­ing me to pro­duce for her since the day i got my first kiss. unfor­tu­nately, the gods are nasty and spite­ful beings with noth­ing bet­ter to do except turn nor­mally bor­ing sit­u­a­tions into ROFLDIDYOUSEETHAT episodes that they can favourite on their youtube accounts for later view­ing. thus all i can do is stand there and tol­er­ate her tirade because i’m not allowed to chokeslam this bitch into the ground, try­ing my very best to stay calm and wait for my turn to speak, but that doesn’t hap­pen because chick­ens on fire do not stop fluttering/yelling/crying/dancing like they’re in some 80s music video ever.

secu­rity even­tu­ally breaks every­one up before things esca­late fur­ther. i return to the game, com­pletely pissed off and feel­ing guilty (unwar­ranted girl tears are so evil) and can’t enjoy the 3–1 destruc­tion of the van­cou­ver canucks by the good guys.

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