By: Uncle Hardass, Grumpy Old Man Correspondent
Hello degenerate 3.5 readers. Still wasting your time trying to become writers I see. Despite your old Uncle Hardass’ repeated efforts to put you on the straight and narrow path, you’re all still convinced that you’re going to be the next Hugh Howey.
And you know what? Maybe you all ought to shut yourselves up in a big grain silo for a decade or two just to get some inspiration for your next writing project. God knows the world would be a better place without all you damn hippies in it.
The salt mines are still hiring, by the way. GET A JOB!
Anyway, it’s Valentine’s Day. The day of love. Amor, mon cheri. I know this comes as no surprise, but back in my day, I was quite the ladies’ man.
Why, when Gertie and I started going steady, I used to whisper sweet nothings in her ear like “Where’s my damn sandwich?” and “My dirty pants aren’t going to launder themselves.”
And Gertie was no slouch either. Why, I remember one day we were taking a romantic walk through the drug store to pick up my hemorrhoid medication, the kind I like in the tube with the applicator tip, and she said to me, “Well, what the shit, I guess if I could do any better than you, Hardassimo, I’d of done it by now.”
Now that’s love.
Nothing spells love like settling, 3.5 hippy readers. And for those of you at home stuffing your free Dairy Queen blizzards in your suckholes and reading a blog that only attracts an audience of 3.5 readers, let me ask you this:
Have you considered settling?
Listen, I get it. You have dreams. You’re probably young and you’ve been led to believe crazy ideas like “I’m special” and “I deserve good things to happen to me” and “I believe in myself so all my dreams will come true.”
Look, that may all be well and good but lets face it. Ladies, your Prince Charming is not riding up on his noble steed any time soon and men, a bus load of bikini models is not going to ever hire you to be their towel boy either.
If you’re alone this Valentine’s Day and you’re reading this pathetic excuse for a blog, then there’s a statistically high probability that you are what my nephew Bookshelf Q. Battler might call a C.H.U.D. and he doesn’t mean that in a disrespectful tone. He’d be the first to tell you that he is one.
Hell, I tell BQB that he looks like a “Cannibalistic Humanoid Underground Dweller” all the time and he never thanks me for it. Don’t blame him for his rudeness. He’s a blood relative on Gertie’s side of the family, so he never had the chance to inherit his Uncle Hardass’ good manners, looks, hard worth ethic, or his general ability to display kindness and sensitivity.
Look, if you millennials have come to me for advice about your love lives, you’ve come to the wrong place. Way back when I was a youngster if a man liked a woman he’d ask her out on a date to the malt shoppe and if he had a good job and wasn’t a damn communist, her father would push her out the door like any God fearing American would have done at the time.
Ahh, but you new age young people have it all ass backwards now. Ask a girl out on a date today and you’ll get accused of intruding on her “safe space” with a “micro aggression.”
Ladies, I’m not saying you have it any better now either. Women used to be able to bat their eyelashes at a man they liked and that was it. Now if you do that the guy’s liable to reach into his man purse and offer you a dab of his manscara.
That wasn’t a gay joke. That was a straight men have become just as bad as women are at primping themselves all the time joke. My nephew BQB has informed me that one errant gay joke is enough to leave you labeled as being worse than Charles Manson these days and I for one have always been an advocate for the gays. As long as they work hard, pay their taxes and mow their damn lawns then I could care less what they do behind closed doors. More cooter for me, I say.
But I digress. Let me return to the topic of settling.
If you’re reading this blog and you are alone on Valentine’s Day….SETTLE!
YOU! Yes you. The gal reading this dumb blog while you’re petting a calico cat with one hand and scooping Ben and Jerry’s into your face hole with the other.
Why aren’t you settling?
You think I’m being mean here but I’m not. Most of the time I am but not this time. What was going through your mind when you rejected that geek that you met at your friend’s party last week? You know. That loser with the dopey glasses who couldn’t stop talking about the “Settlers of Catan Strategy Club” he’s in.
He called you and left a message. Why haven’t you called that asshole back yet?
Oh I know. “Some day things are going to turn around. I’m going to blossom into a beautiful butterfly and Brad Pitt is going to knock down my door.”
Yeah. Well. Look. One day he might. One day my dumbass nephew might get a real job too. Until God starts passing out miracles, call that dufus up and go on a date with him, will you? What have you got to lose?
Holy shit. He’s a C.H.U.D. You’re a C.H.U.D. Why are you damn C.H.U.D.s at home alone, stroking your ugly pets alone, watching TV alone, when you could be snuggled up nice and tight together as a hideous C.H.U.D. couple, getting a start on your bright C.H.U.D. future together and working on making some C.H.U.D. babies to scare the shit out of the nurses in the maternity ward?
I’ll tell you why. To quote Marcellus Wallace in that Pulp Fiction movie that my stupid nephew used to watch on a continuous loop when he was growing up, “That’s pride talking.”
Yes. You’ve convinced yourself that Brad Pitt is just around the corner. Keep yourself single so you’ll be ready when Brad wakes up one day in his damn mansion, turns to his wife, Angelina Jolie and cries, “Holy shit, Angelina! I’m sorry but I just realized I’m attracted to she-C.H.U.D.s with a penchant for overweight felines and novelty Vermont based ice cream products!”
Is there anything wrong with you for wanting better? No. That’s just human nature. Shit, the day you stop wanting more is the day they outfit you for a pine box.
Keep wanting better but Jesus, take what you can get in the mean time. If the bazillion to one shot that Brad leaves Angelina for you ever works out in your favor, then you can let the C.H.U.D. boyfriend you settled for go. Maybe see if Brad can toss him a few bucks so he can get some plastic surgery to look less hideous so he can find a babe to replace you.
Holy Shit, I’ve dated myself, haven’t I? None of you dummies know who Brad and Angelina are do you? Who are the C.H.U.D. millennial girls hoping knocks on their door? Justin Beiber? Shit. I have no idea.
Men, take a knee because your dumb asses aren’t getting off the hook easy either. All you male C.H.U.D.s at home playing video games in your mother’s basement instead of asking that girl who works at the Arby’s that you visit three times a day to toss big beef and cheddars down your gullet. Why don’t you ask her out? What? Because she has crooked teeth and a hair lip?
Shit. I’m sure she’s still a nice gal. Take her out to a few movies then once you get her in the sack you can plant some subliminal messages around the house. Put a free coupon for lip waxing in the magazine she’s reading. Tell her you have no idea how it got there. Put an orthodontia documentary on the TV and blast it on high while she’s sleeping. Maybe it’ll sink in.
Or just say screw it and learn to love her for her Yeti lip and snaggle teeth because let’s face it, you’re fatter than most planets and you could sell the rights to your face to Halloween mask companies. Stop holding out for Blake Lively. Blake Lively would not touch your diseased micro phallus if it was the only option to keep an alien race from exploding a thermonuclear bomb inside the Earth’s core.
Yeah. Shit. When I put it like that you want to call that Arby’s cashier up now, don’t you?
And just as the dopey gal with the cat can drop her C.H.U.D. boyfriend if Brad shows up, you too can show the Arby’s girl the door if Blake Lively falls out of love with her handsome movie star husband Ryan Reynolds and decides she’s been missing out when it comes to the micro genitalia of men that play video games in their mothers’ basements all day.
Yes, I know you young folk have been raised with perpetual pats on your back for doing nothing and participation ribbons for just showing up and you were taught to expect that every one of your wildest dreams will come true, so you may hate my guts for dousing you with this cold water but I’m really doing you a favor here.
I worry about you C.H.U.D.s. I really, really do. I’m not just saying that either. Right now there’s a lonely she-C.H.U.D. and a lonely he-C.H.U.D. reading this and those C.H.U.D.s could be out having a swell time together on Valentine’s Day instead of wasting their time alone, apart, with nothing better to do than read my incompetent nephew’s bullshit blog.
You ugly people should be together, having a good time, talking, laughing, getting to know each other and should the mood strike, exploring each others’ hideous, disgusting bodies, the types of bodies that Brad and Blake wouldn’t touch with rubber gloves covered in disinfectant.
Look, I wanted Rita Hayworth but I settled for Gertie. And Gertie wanted Frank Sinatra but she got stuck with me. We each wanted better but we weren’t dummies. Like a lousy strip mall insurance lawyer, or a new house on a rickety foundation, we settled and you should too.
But Uncle Hardass, why are you telling me to settle for someone who treats me like shit and is mean to me and steals all my money and hits me and so on?
Jesus. You 3.5 readers have reading comprehension problems. I didn’t say settle for someone who’s a total asshole or doesn’t treat you with the dignity you deserve and shit, you don’t even have to settle for someone you don’t like or aren’t interested in. If, for whatever reason, they just aren’t greasing your spark plugs, you don’t have to seem them again. Don’t settle for someone if you don’t foresee any possible way of being in love with them.
All I’m saying is, at the risk of sounding hokey, we’re all God’s children, made as he made us, aren’t we?
Ladies, go on a date with that geek. Fellas, go on a date with that she-nerd. Worst that happens is you don’t have a good time, it doesn’t feel right, and you don’t go out again. Best that happens is you gave it a shot and you end up having a great time with someone you’d like to get to know better and you aren’t waiting around for something to happen. Something is actually happening instead.
All I’m saying is you might be missing out on the love of your life for some dumb superficial reason, you dumbass.
Eh, but what do I know? The more I watch the news, the more it seems like everyone’s an asshole these days so maybe all you single people are better off alone. The world’s falling apart, so no need to procreate just to hand a shitty world to a new generation of losers who will cock it all up even worse than it is now, if that’s even possible.
Happy Valentine’s Day, lonely 3.5 readers. Buck up, keep a stiff upper lip, and better luck next year.