So, you’ve chopped off your husband’s penis. Okay, maybe he was about to become your ex-husband and maybe you poisoned him and maybe you thought it would add a little somethin’ to the story if you tied him to a bed and used a ten inch knife to castrate him… Obviously if you’ve planned this far ahead, you know exactly what to tell the cops after you calmly tell the 911 operator that yeah, there’s a bit of a medical emergency in your apartment.
What, everyone will wonder, were your words of brilliance that comprised the reasoning for such a brutal deed? Obviously: “He deserved it.”
That, ladies and gents, is the kind of woman who lives in the same lovely county as I do. This crazy bitch CUT OFF HER HUSBAND’S PENIS. WITH A KNIFE.
Oh, but it gets better… because really, once you’ve dismembered the same man you promised to love and cherish til death (or unfortunate litigation) do us part, why not go a little crazy?
She… God, it hurts to even write it… she… she put… his penis… down…the garbage disposal. Ack…the noise that must have made!?!
Loraina Bobbit, wherever that nut-case is, must be writhing with jealousy of this lady who dared to so blatantly one up her. And I, in the comfort of my room (after having sent this story to almost everyone I know), am writhing with some sort of morbid curiosity at what has to go so fucking wrong in your life that this seems like even a slightly acceptable idea.
Upon telling D about it, she pointed out that really it’s the only way to make sure your ex doesn’t sleep with anyone else… but really, after they imprison you or find you a cozy, padded cell, you won’t be doing the deed with anyone either. Unless Freddy Kruger is looking for a lady friend.
The Libra asked me where I was last night, trying to insinuate that I am capable of such outbursts. (For the record: I am not. I might get a little needy, or throw a tantrum from time to time, but I will leave you with your penis).
My coworker simply said, “Please, please don’t tell me you think this was cool.”
And now that the story has spread like wild fire and men the world over are investing in pad-locked protection for their members, you’ve got to be concerned that shit like this even goes on on a Monday night. Personally, I’m concerned that shit like this goes on in what seems to be a high-end, affluent, relatively normal community. Have we, as a culture, moved so far past the predictable, I’m-burning-all-your-stuff-because-you-suck acts, that we succumb to physically marring someone? Revoking their man-card in the most literal (and disturbing) sense?
You know this bitch was thinking that she wanted to cause some irreprable damage. She was sending a message. I pray to the heavens I never have to understand that message, but hot damn! Was she calm through the whole ordeal? “Oh, you need that? Hm… well, look, yeah, there’s still bits and pieces left! We’ll just sew it back on. There! Good as new. You’re fine honey, stop whining, you’re just making it bleed worse.”
It’s a penis. They NEED those… that’s where they store all their hopes and dreams and aspirations for future and self worth. It would be like robbing me of my wit. (ha. ha).
Sigh. There’s a man out there, in critical condition now, without a penis. And a woman, in jail, probably getting high-fives from her fellow basket-cases.
And there’s me… morbidly relieved that there are people out there so out of their trees that they make me look not only normal, but awesome, and wondering what the motherfuck anyone could do to actually deserve getting Lorana Bobbitted.
Gentlemen, hide your penises. She’s coming for them.
You may have heard, but Valentine’s Day is sort of coming up. And since I am harboring slight resentment towards people who own penises, I will be spending the holiday with… yep, Charlie the stupid miracle dog. And maybe drinking wine while opening presents that my mom gets me every year since it’s become quite apparent that her daughter is doomed for spinsterhood… oh, your mom doesn’t pretend to be your valentine? Me neither… (hi, mom!)
So, in an attempt to remind those of us who may or may not be planning on throwing a grenade (bomb, not ugly Jersey- girl) through the window of your local romantic eatery that there are some major perks to singledome, I offer you this shabby list:
Things That Are (Slightly) Better While Single:
- Happy Hour. All eight hours of it because you have no other commitments and nobody is blowing up your phone or asking why you are still out drinking with those people you only kind of know.
- Christmas. You just saved yourself a whole lot of money and time by not plotting the perfect gift for a man who will inevitably buy you something in the wrong size, or tickets to something that he really wants to see more than you… or in my case, the dog that you didn’t want and had to give away once you broke up… (poor Penny).
- Vegas. There is absolutely no good that comes from having a significant other while you run around in what is probably a shirt that automatically gets reclassified as a stand-alone dress in Vegas.
- Bars. Because if you’re taken you essentially just got dressed up to look at strangers hotter than your boyfriend that you aren’t allowed to talk to. Lucky. You.
- Lifetime Television. For reasons unbeknownst to me, men can never fully appreciate the joys of movies called She’s Too Young, or Someone Else’s Husband. So good. (Who doesn’t want to watch Tori Spelling’s TV-movie comeback?)
- Free Time. For those of you without boyfriends, it’s the time you spend napping, or shopping, or reading the book you always wanted to read, or brunching with girlfriends. For those of you with boyfriends: it’s the time you spend staring at him watching basketball, or running errands or hanging out with his parents.
- Panties that are not thongs. Sweet hallelujah. Because sometimes you just gotta rock the full-butt undies.
- Holidays that revolve around booze and/or costumes. Actually, any holiday that doesn’t require extensive family time. He’s seen you naked already, dressing up like a slutty beer wench is for the strangers you meet on Halloween, not for him. Let’s get real.
- Shopping. No feeling guilty that maybe you should buy him that shirt he wanted, or him telling you that he really is not a fan of you in blue so then you stay away from the color blue. It’s all about you and your limitless materialism. Get it, girl.
- Sleeping. No snoring. No weird boy smell in your bed. No awkward pillow-sharing. No sleep-talking, mumbling, shouting or punching. No other-people’s alarms going off at the fucking crack of dawn. Just you, sleeping pleasantly by yourself without any interruptions or other nuisances. So good.
Okay, so if you do not dabble in a love of drinking, you probably should think about getting a boyfriend because really, I’m not sure what you do all night/weekend… Lifetime movies aren’t THAT good, and there’s only so much shopping for yourself you can do until your that broke, lonely girl.
There. This was uplifting. You’re welcome, single friends!
We’ve created a monster. By “we” I mean men, of course. Men created this beast of suspicion and manipulative thinking with too much free time and ready access to the internet. Which is far more dangerous than anyone realizes, unless you’re like me and devote pathetic amounts of time to thinking about obscure things like this. I hope, for you’re sake, you’re not like me.
Anywho. I’ve mentioned this before, and it’s a regular topic amongst my girlfriends and I, but I just googled myself (I do this quite regularly, actually) and was not very excited about the results. I have a fairly unique name which makes it pretty easy to know if google or facebook or twitter is actually referencing me or someone else masquerading as me. Because I regularly use the internet as a weapon against men I date, I like to make sure that whatever someone could find on me via some creeping isn’t too unsavory.
I was quite disappointed to find that the internet (and probably the world at large) does me NO favors in the realm of cyber-espionage. I don’t seem all that interesting, the pictures are horrendous, and it’s a lot of dated stuff that would lead someone to believe I have no life and just loiter around sorority houses. It doesn’t even have any cool “maybe she’s a bad-ass” or “wait, is that illegal?” references. Google image-searching me does however, result in a shit ton of pictures of fur coats, which is so totally relevant considering I can’t even afford a fur coat and even if I could, I’d have to be rufied to wear it. Damn you, misleading search engines.
Before I get too wrapped up in my own results, it should be mentioned that facebook/google/twitter/linkedin/myspace and a few other social sites have been invaluable in my dating successes (cough fails cough). Since I’m absolutely maniacal if I get a purpose and a keyboard in front of me, I’ve been able to dig up criminal histories (lots of DUI’s in 20-something men these days) relationship statuses, and uncovered various “deal-breakers” before even walking into the first date. Never go in un-armed, is the lesson I suppose I’m trying to relay. And of course, never become un-armed because men are stupid and not to be trusted and will sooner or later fuck up without having he brains to cover it up correctly on the internet. At which point you
go all Lorana Bobbit on his ass adddress it like an adult and explain that the sheer number of facebook friends you have means there is no such thing as a secret anymore in his world. In a totally non-you-may-want-to-get-a-restraining-order kind of way, of course.
Our generation is the first one to traverse this territory that stupidly combines internet and romance. We were the kids in chat rooms in the 90’s and the ones giggling at mentions of “cybering.” Our peers pioneered friendster and myspace and then watched the phenomenon of facebook take over basic human interaction in all developed countries. And then, a few broken-hearted women managed to turn all those things into yet another weapon against the men that pissed them off, all before men even knew what the fuck hit them. And still, as women trade log-ins to see what they are barred from otherwise viewing and googling into page 44, men underestimate the levels of
crazy dedication we can reach when we have enough wine and time. The point is: we’re making up the rules as we go, and the rules, as I understand them are quite simple. To summarize- if it’s on the internet and at all accessible without a security clearance from the Department of Homeland Security, it’s fair game. Men will have to learn to defend themselves a little better, and they no doubt will find a way to do that and continue on with their tendency to act first, think later without the ramifications of some crazy exes blowing up his statuses on facebook and tagging him in all kinds of things never meant for the public to see. But in the meantime, men would be smart to remember that the internet, despite its attractive fantasy-sports leagues and plethora of porn is not their friend. Not even kind of.
I asked someone recently what the difference was between generic curiosity and actual “creeping.” The answer? When it has the capacity to hurt your feelings.