Abusive Jerks and Betrothed Zombies

A girl called me cute today. This is a problem.

You see, when a girl calls you cute, you suddenly wear the same label as puppies, shoes, old people, little brothers, and every other guy that she will never kiss.

Truth: girls love jerks. Why do girls love jerks? Ask any girl what the most attractive quality in a man is, and more often than not you will get one word: confidence. And jerks have confidence in spades. Nothing says confidence like "I don't need you, or even really want you." And whether or not girls will ever admit to it, they gobble that stuff up--at least at first.

The contradiction comes here: girls are attracted to jerks, but they don't want them. Girls start dating a jerk thinking "He's so confident. Look at him sweep me off my feet in his strong, confident, uncaring arms." The inevitable then takes place days, weeks, months, or years later, when she comes to the sudden realization that all of that confidence stems from the fact that he is in fact a jerk. Cue the tubs of ice cream and phone calls to girlfriends and sypathetic nice guys whom she will never date that all sound like "He's such a jerk. He doesn't love me, doesn't care about me, doesn't treat me right, never does X or Y for me, etc. etc." And always, it ends with "Why can't I just date a nice guy for once?"

Because in truth, girls want nice guys, but more often than not, they are not attracted to them. Nice guys get called "cute", "nice", and "safe", only to get dragged behind girls who aren't interested in them, watching them go through every abusive, uncaring, mentally challenged jock and meathead that has sufficient mental and physical presence to obnoxiously proclaim "I will treat you like garbage."

These guys--these followers--they're suckers. Have I been there? Have I been a sucker? I have. Never again.

I've decided that there are only three kinds of guys that get girls. The first, are the truly nice guys who get incredibly lucky and find abnormally sane women who are actually attracted to nice guys. Empirical evidence collected by yours truly suggests that these are extremely rare and precious women.

The second kind are just plain jerks. Most jerks will eventually find someone to be with for an extended period of time. That's usually either because he's able to clean up his act and become a nice guy, or he cleans up his act long enough to make the woman feel like she's trapped in the relationship once he goes back to being a jerk.

The third kind of guy is the nice guy who doesn't get lucky, who is forced by circumstance to get smart. These are the nice guys in disguise. If you can't be a jerk, you can fake it. The biggest issue is knowing when to take off the jerk mask to reveal that you're actually a nice guy. Timing is everything.

So now you understand why it bothers me that I was called cute today.

It was like I was being accused of being a nice guy, and a nice guy I am not. I have a motorcycle. My inbox is littered with the remains of conversations with girls that I've taken out and never called back. I make fun of sparkly vampires and any movie where women wear gigantic skirts and use the word "betrothed." In fact, if a movie doesn't have zombies, war, a heist, or a wartime zombie heist, it will likely take considerable effort to convince me to even agree to being in the same room while it's playing. The stereo in my car has only one setting for volume: it's called whatever-I-set-it-at-and-I-will-slap-your-hand-away-if-you-try-to-touch-it. Also, the playlist is mine to control, and there is no way in hell I will ever disgrace my car by playing country, no matter how much you beg and plead and attempt to coerce me. I will make every attempt to forget your birthday, your parents' names, and everything you said on our first date. In fact, I'll probably forget our first date entirely. I'll take every chance I can to badmouth you to my friends, and get with all of yours.

So girls, all of that and more I will do if, when, and however I decide, because I'm a jerk--an obnoxious, uncaring, abusive jerk. At least, until you come to your senses and decide you want me to be a nice guy. I can do that too :)

Cake-Pies and Songbirds

I am making a Cherpumple.

"What is a Cherpumple?" you ask.

Wrong question. The right question to be asking is "Why is a Cherpumple?"

I'll tell you why.

The Cherpumple is because society's "size-zero and washboard abs" version of beauty and social acceptance must be fought. The Cherpumple is because now and again we must break out of our health-conscious, death-by-heart-attack fearing mindset, and proclaim loudly to the world "I want diabetes!" The Cherpumple is the epitome of stunt food, in all its glory and deliciousness.

Of course, it is also an extreme food novelty, sure to earn me many quality high-fives at the celebration of Falliday. That is, if it will hold together.

You see, I am no ordinary chef. When I enter the kitchen, birds alight on the windowsill to watch the artist at work and sing inspiration while I create my masterpieces. The knives, dishes, and appliances all greet me with enthusiasm, proud to be a part of the great work about to be wrought by my hands. When I open the spice cabinet, I am met with a cacophony of desperate pleas, saying "pick me! pick me!" Truly, the kitchen is my home, and I am master of my domain.

But with such incredible skill comes a burdensome responsibility: I cannot follow any recipe exactly as it is written. It is my solemn duty to improve upon the recipes of the uninspired, to lift them out of mediocrity, and into the light of tastebud zen. Such is my calling, and therefore, in my decision to take on the great Cherpumple, I have sought to improve upon its already magnificent magnificence.

"How can it be?" you ask. "The arrogance! The gumption! How dare you?" you continue.

I dare, and the cries of pleasure that result from the fruits of my labor shall vindicate me.

The original recipe calls for a pumpkin pie inside of a spice cake, a cherry pie inside of a white cake, and an apple pie inside of a yellow cake. I wasn't terribly impressed with the synergy of the pie flavors, so for my Cherpumple (which likely can no longer be called a Cherpumple, as that name was derived from the names of the pies inside), I have a berry pie inside of a chocolate cake, a chocolate pie inside of a yellow cake, and a cherry pie inside of a confetti cake. Hence, I shall name mine The Cherrocleberry. Cherpumple, you have been one-upped.

However, there is one problem. You see, pies don't stand up to pressure as well as cakes. you take a pie, put something heavy on it, like two other pies sheathed in layers of cake and covered in frosting, and it tends to just squish and ooze all over the place. This is what the berry pie on the bottom layer has been demonstrating to me ever since I put on the second layer, which has the chocolate pie in it. The cherry, also susceptible (I'm guessing) to being squished, is going on top.

This has been a learning experience. The birds abandoned me about an hour ago, and the spices are cowering in fear behind the flour, but I will not be discouraged. The layers are all in the freezer, cooling off and hopefully firming up. Soon I will assemble the top layer and slather the Cherrocleberry in obnoxious amounts of cream cheese frosting, and all will be well in the world. I take heart in the fact that no one seems to be able to make it look pretty. In fact, another blogger described it as looking like "a forbidding white tower, the Soviet Bloc apartment building of cakes."

Mmm... diabetes never tasted so good.