Heartbreak, She Wrote

Suzanne Blais hopes that crazy bitch mechanic will stop calling her - look, Wanda, I was just experimenting. Don't e-mail her at [email protected]





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A wise man once said that every romantic relationship should end just like an old episode of "Murder She Wrote" - we find out who the culprit was that caused all the problems around Cabot Cove, and he or she is duly punished. Then Angela Lansbury has a spot of tea and smokes a doobie or whatever. What my chemically induced, altered-state dwelling friend was talking about was that evil, empty feeling a guy or gal is left with when they are punched in the stomach by Cupid. One minute it's you and shnookums together foev-a; the next, you're just a lonely soldier traversing the mine field of love. F*$#@&G Cupid. That rat bastard. Why doesn't he watch where he's flinging those freakin' arrows?

One minute, you're happily enjoying a frothy beverage at a local pub. You're eyeing the Budweiser Beer girls frolicking around a keg on a TV commercial, munching handfuls of nuts or perhaps a basket of Kip's Famous Fries, cooked at near-nuclear heat levels in oil not changed since your dad went to school here.

And then she walks in. It's the girl of your dreams. That one who arrives late to class every day, disrupting the lecture and disturbing your professor. But even cranky old Professor I'm-Just-Here-Waiting-for-Tenure has to grin at her, because this little nymphet smiles coyly and says in breathy whispers, "I'm sooooo sorry. But my kitty got caught in a really, really tall tree, and I had to call a big, strong fireman to free him." Oh, yeah. You want to be her big fireman. You want to extinguish the ever-burning fires of her eternal lust for your chubby tummy and early-stage male-pattern baldness. And you've got just the hose to do it ...

All right, Porky, back to reality. You and Dream Girl will make oh-so-discreet eye contact across the bar all evening until you finally work up the nerve to enter her "personal space" and casually bump and/or fall into her. Instantly, the two of you pretend you have never laid eyes on one another before. "So, can I get you a refill on what you're drinking?" will slowly morph to "I have some excellent black light posters in my room" to "Would you like a pair of boxers to wear home?"

Life will be perfect for several months, and the dating-desert here at Berkeley won't be quite so bleak. Kingpin doughnuts will seem extra fluffy, La Burrita carne asada burritos will have extra asada, and Fat Slices will actually taste decent. Your time logged online ogling Internet porn will decline drastically. You will dance the secret dance that only those who are getting some know, otherwise known as the "Booty Boogie." You will buy new boxers after finally giving up those rags with guinea-pig sized holes. No more skidmarks.

And then one day it will all change, and you'll have no idea why. You leave your socks on during nookie, as usual, and suddenly the crazy psycho bitch is crying and throwing your prized Phish CDs at the wall. Leaving your socks on means you don't respect her as a person, that she can't grow with you and that she never really like liked you. At least you think that's what she is saying. You are too busy looking at her boobies. Telling her to shut up or go make you some bacon while she is fuming and screaming like a banshee doesn't seem like an extremely prudent idea, so you have to sit there, wearing nothing but your socks, and listen to her yell. Women have killed men or even scratched their cars for less. And your Camaro just got a new coat of paint.

"What the hell?" you say to yourself as you lie in bed all day playing Mario Tennis. How could your perfect bliss have been so shattered? That's where my friend's philosophy begins to make so much sense. No more hurt feelings and dejected moans of "Why?" Sure, shows like "Ricki Lake" will take a hit - there will be fewer episodes titled "My Baby's Daddy Left Me for That Skank at the Mall," but that just leaves more room for such fine television as "I'm Too Busty for My Own Good - And I'm Only 14!" The second-to-last verbal insult is hurled and the sinking relationship is finally declared null and void, John Tesh should appear in a vision to sum up everything that was going down (literally) behind the scenes at all parties involved (that means you, her, the football player she hooked up with, the friend who won't stop gossiping about your small member and your best friend who is doing it doggy-style with the gossiping bitch).

"So you see, Bambi, Freddy has issues with women because his mother emotionally scarred him during his prepubescent years when she caught him masturbating to a picture of Debbie Gibson and henceforth duct-taped his hands together every night before bed," (pause for reflection and musical interlude). "And Freddy, Bambi feels stifled because you laughed at her dream of becoming an Olympic synchronized swimmer, even though she can barely doggie paddle. And she's still fooling around with her ex-girlfriend, Crazy Wanda the Mechanic."

Some of you readers might wonder why I wrote this from a male perspective. Let me assure you, just because I lack the anatomical accoutrement of a penis doesn't mean that I don't understand your pain when trying to interpret the female gender. I don't understand chicks any better than you guys do. They cry and spend a lot of time practicing bizarre rituals like eyebrow-tweezing and weird nether-region-waxing. Not saying anything is actually the meanest thing they can say, and just one icy look can cut you in half.

How the hell do you guys sack up enough courage to approach gaggles of chicks in bars and other arenas of meetin' 'n' greetin'? I bet that's why you wait until we go to the bar by ourselves to get a drink - to separate us from the herd. Interesting; makes sense. That's how they shoot buffalo ...

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