In My Fair Lady, Eliza Doolittle’s young suitor sings, “I have often walked down your street before”, but he didn’t sing about camping out on her doorstep for a year.

Here’s my question: who has the time to stalk someone to the extent that this broad did?

What started as a potential relationship on a dating site ended in a stalking nightmare for one Paradise Valley (AZ) man.
PV police say the victim met 31-year-old Jacqueline Claire Ades of Phoenix online and went on a date with her.
But things quickly went awry.
After that date, police say Ades began texting the man constantly, sending him more than 65,000 text messages. The victim told police sometimes she would send up to 500 texts a day.

That’s roughly a fifty texts an hour, assuming this chick had other stuff to do during the day, like eat, sleep, go to the can and work at a job. But sixty-five thousand texts?

At my most besotted, I only ever sent Nigella a few hundred (okay, that was one weekend, and there was gin involved).

This creature probably has carpal tunnel syndrome from all the texting. If she was in California, she’d probably sue the object of her desire for damages (and win).

Anyway, follow that link at your peril because nightmares. Under the term “bunny-boiler” in the dictionary is a picture of this loon. I bet her “dating website” pic looks nothing like this, either; yet another reason why I will never — ever — resort to that avenue for getting dates.

People are crazy, and getting crazier. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to grease the chains on the drawbridge.

Coming And Going

I knew quite a few men in my yoof who ran this danger:

A small Australian marsupial known as the antechinus shot to fame after the discovery of two new species five years ago, when scientists revealed how males every mating season are, quite literally, killing themselves by having too much sex.
During the brief breeding period, males ferociously copulate with as many females as possible, in violent sessions that can last upwards of 14 hours – and, their bodies deteriorate as a result.
In the animal kingdom, reproduction can be a dangerous and peculiar game.

Not just in the animal kingdom, Bubba. In humans, this circumstance is known as “Spring Break” where, as is the case for the antechinus, all that’s required is a multitude of willing female partners.

(If perchance you spot your daughter or [shudder]  granddaughter in either of the above pics, I apologize sincerely.)

And for those callow young men who think this antechinal fate couldn’t possibly befall them, let me assure you:  after a single bout of frantic lovemaking, you’ll be pleasantly sated; but after four such encounters with different partners, even over a whole weekend, you’ll feel like death would be a welcome respite.

So trust me:  after fourteen partners on the trot, your internal (and for that matter external) organs, like that of antechinus, are going to resemble raw beef, eggs and carrots after a minute spent in a blender.

Don’t ask me how I know this. I still have the nightmares.


The old homosexual word for a woman is “fish” so I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by this headline (via Insty):

HuffPost: Women Would Rather Have Sex with a Fish Than a Man

Of course, it’s the Supreme Dreckmag itself, so I shouldn’t be surprised. However, unlike for most of their bullshit, this time there is some pictorial evidence to support their claim:

Once again, it is the extraordinarily-eccentric Helena Bonham-Carter so perhaps one should take it with a grain of salt; but still. (By the way: is it so wrong to find this pic very arousing?)

That said, I really do prefer HBC in more ummm conventional poses:

Were I not so allergic to manifestly-insane women, she might once have replaced Nigella in my Pantheon of Hotties.

Creature Comforts

According to reports, BritPrince Harry will be living with his new Hollywood wife in a tiny village in the Cotswolds area of Oxfordshire, out in the west of Britishland — and from personal experience, I can attest to the place’s extraordinary beauty. There is a silver lining to his cloud (the cloud being his bossy, oh-so modern and trendy spouse): his “local” will be the Falkland Arms, and a pretty place it is too…

Alert Readers will notice the presence of Britain’s best brewery on the sign, which means that Harry, a renowned drinker in his youth, will be able to drink pints of Wadworth 6X… assuming his health-Nazi wife allows him to ever visit the place, that is.

Depressing Statistic

As Longtime Readers all know, I look on most “studies” nowadays with the utmost skepticism, being as they generally employ shoddy data collection techniques, poor sampling and / or stupid analytic conclusions.

All that said, I found this one, from this study, to be at least credible:

Most relationships start with terrible or awkward sex.

Well, duh. That’s true of pretty much most human interaction,because you’re on unfamiliar territory and you need to get things straightened out before you can make it work properly.

Within the report, however, was a factoid which I found downright depressing:

69% of Americans admit that they get feelings of excitement right before sex with a new partner.

Now the last time I had sex with a new partner was during the Clinton presidency, so my memory may be failing me. But FFS: what other feelings can one have before first-time sex, if not excitement? Dread? Nausea? Fear? Disgust? And to make it worse: if 69% of folks get excited before a first-time bonk, that means that 31% don’t get excited, which seems incredible. I can understand pre-bonk anxiety, of course — which over half of people admit to — but one can be anxious about something yet still be excited about it. But 31 percent?

As I suggested above, this may just be shitty data, in which case we can carry on with our lives. But if the data can be trusted, then we as a society are in deep shit when something so basic, so natural, and (speaking from memory again) so much fun is not exciting.

Fat Chance

So… now Millennial Grrrrls would rather date older men?

I’ve noticed a new strategy among my set of female friends—lovely, intelligent, independent women—to combat the grime of the online dating world: date up.
I don’t mean status, I mean age. More and more women I know are dating men twice, yes twice, their age.
There have never been more advantages to relationships with older men, precisely because Tinder and its ilk have made dating feel impossible to those of us who don’t want to participate in the battle of who-cares-less. Reach back two decades and you are more likely to find a man who can’t fathom swiping through a series of pictures to find a mate for the night.
Older men are attentive, they aren’t threatened by your career success, they didn’t grow up watching porn on their laptops, and they certainly don’t expect sex from you before you’ve even had a chance to meet. It’s not an “old-fashioned” dating scheme, it’s just a more humane one.

Hate to burst your bubble, sweetie, but for the (older) men of my generation, just the fact that you were ever on Tinder is an automatic disqualification. And that’s just the start. I wouldn’t claim to speak on behalf of my generation of men, but here’s what I see amongst today’s young women (I can’t bring myself to call you “ladies” because you are the most unladylike creatures imaginable).

Millennial women are hopelessly vapid, shallow and amoral creatures. They have no philosophy outside the most banal, bumper-sticker tropes, and they are enslaved to a trashy popular culture that men like myself find repellent and atrocious — think of Kardashian TV, Real Housewives Of [wherever], Jersey Shore, Britain’s TOWIE and so on. Millennial women are also enslaved to technology like Facebook, Twitter and the like, are chained to their vile “smart” phones and consequently have the attention span of gnats. Worse than that, Millennial women are sexually promiscuous, with all the ghastly, pox-laden potential consequences that such a lifestyle entails.

While all this may entice some older guys into what your Millennial male counterparts scornfully call a “pump & dump” relationship — i.e. a short-term, mostly physical encounter — it does not bode well for your prospects if you’re looking for more than that. Do you think that despite our supposed “ignorance” of modern technology, we’re unaware of situations like SugarBabies.com and their ilk? (FYI: we older men refer to this as “prostitution“, no matter what you were taught in your Fem Studies classes.) It’s an instructive lesson to hear how the men who sponsor these tarts characterize their charges: disposable, cheap and ultimately, repulsive. (Ever wonder why so few sugar babies end up marrying their sugar daddies? Check the stats, if you can even understand them.) When you start setting your cap at this demographic, this is what awaits you.

So to all those “lovely, intelligent, independent women” who appear to have finally grown up and realized that they’re not quite the catch they imagined they were: you fucked up.  Now you have to deal with the consequences of the choices made back when you were in your late teens and twenties. (And by the way: most of you aren’t lovely, intelligent and independent: you’re slovenly, overweight, dull and horribly dependent on, well, just about everybody from your parents to HR departments to government.)

The biggest mistake you Millennial Grrrls ever made? Believing the feminist bullshit that your mothers’ generation foisted on you as gospel. Guess what?  You can’t have it all.  Never could, and nor can anyone, ever. Life is a series of compromises; and you lot compromised your morals, your youth, your self-respect and your womanhood, all in pursuit of the unattainable.

I’d say I’m sorry for your plight; but considering the misery that the so-called third-generation feminism has inflicted and continues to inflict on both men and women in today’s wretched society, I can’t sympathize with you in the slightest. There’s a term in the patriarchy which describes your situation perfectly:  tough shit.

Good luck, grrrls.

And welcome to the Thunder Dome.