In WTF news: Persistence Pays Off…

We were disturbed by the following recent headline, “NFL Player Chris Chambers Marries His Stalker.” Um, what?

How much of a raging narcissist do you have to be to dig the fact someone is obsessed with you? And who is this woman who would tie the knot with a dude who filed criminal charges against her?

Ugh. We feel this is setting a dangerous precedent: persistence pays off, even when it’s self-destructive and completely nutso.

Cookie Monster is My Dream Man

Cookie Monster, will you marry me?

Ladies, I’m fairly certain that Cookie Monster, everyone’s favorite Muppet, is my dream man, my soul mate–what else can I say? He completes me. Why? I’m a simple broad, and Cookie is a simple man, er, muppet.  He’s cuddly and gregarious, and has a singular ambition that I find admirable. Sure, his life’s passion is eating chocolate-chip cookies, but I’m willing to be a close second to this delectable treat. They’re freakin’ delicious, and it beats being second to his band and their fruitless attempts to be the next Pearl Jam, or his surfboard and the endless pursuit of the perfect wave.

Women state that a sense of humor is the most desirable trait in a man, and Cookie’s googly eyes always make me laugh. I’m over guys with complex beauty regimes and shrinking waistlines. Because this Monster knows what he wants out of life, and provided he can fit me into his cookie-eating schedule, I think we’ll work out fine.

Have a nice life. No, I mean it.

I really do. I don’t wish ill on anyone. I really mean it, have a nice life. I’m saying this because I don’t expect to see you again. Ever. In this life or the next, to be completely clear. I don’t think we’ll cross paths, or bump into each other on the street, or find reasons to call one another up and grab a beer. It’s not malicious, I have no ill will towards you. We just don’t have much in common, and I won’t miss you because I never knew you (or liked you) that well in the first place. If I had, we wouldn’t be having this pleasant conversation.
In this age of online social networking or whatever annoying name you want to call it, everyone feels like they can, and subsequently have to, stay in touch with everyone else. Well, here’s an idea: falling out of touch is highly underrated. We meet tons of people in our weird modern lives. And not all of them are that cool. Some of them are super cool, but their paths are just veering in some other direction and hey, have a nice journey.
Some of them happen to be people we have dated and/or slept with and maybe we’d rather not know where they are at or what their ‘status’ is. In the old days the Lazy Broad would just think fondly of some old flame and say, well, I hope he got what he wanted (whether that was, you know, a nice life or the big boobed broad he left you for).  Now we only have to check his page and we know exactly what he’s doing, if he’s married to that dumb broad, or holding on to his desperate, balding youth by trying to be ‘adventurous’, or still living at home and writing long, annoyingly introspective blogs about his dog.
The bummer is we’ve lost that romanticism about the one that got away, because no one ever gets away. There is no place to get away to. There’s no mystery. There’s just one big interconnected world of meaningless virtual friends. This Lazy Broad is too lazy to keep track of all those people in that half-ass manner. I’d rather have a handful of real relationships, in the flesh, and leave it at that. And to everyone I’ve ever lost touch with, thanks for the time I knew you. Have a nice life! Really! I mean it!

You Can’t Put Your Arm Around a Memory and Other Reasons You are Too Lazy for a Long Distance Relationship

I’m too lazy for a long distance relationship. I am simply too lazy to maintain chemistry via the phone, text message, or Skype.

Despite the fact that you can stay in near constant contact with your proximity-challenged mate, it does not make it any easier to be in a relationship. You cannot be in a relationship with someone who is not there. You can’t put your arm around a memory, to quote Johnny Thunders.

There comes a time when you have to put a stop to one kind of laziness so you can admit a deeper one: you can’t be bothered with 30 miles or 3,000.

I’ve tested the theory before. You don’t have any frame of reference and you try to care about what’s going on with your boy’s boss or dad or cat but you can’t keep all these distant details in your lazy head and BESIDES, you have a life to live that’s right in front of your lazy face. And that’s much more your style. At least it’s mine.

We Are Really in Love. Really. In. Love.

We here at Lazy Broad are confounded by the idea that you can win a husband as a prize. Or a wife, for that matter. Recently, we watched an episode of a certain well-known reality show involving one woman and a pack of overly-testosteroned dudes, and it raised a number of questions. First of all, who would want to date so many people at once? Dating ONE person is a lot of work. How does she even keep their names straight? And why does she even bother?

Which leads to our second question. Where do they find these people? Malls? They are the most bland, vanilla bunch of boys ever. Every single one is a stock analyst or an account manager or something like that. Not that they are encouraged to talk about their work, or anything else they might possibly be passionate about (although it’s hard to imagine these Ken dolls are passionate about much, beyond their shiny pecs), because all conversation has to revolve around the central premise of the show: that everyone is looking for True Love. Fairytale-type True Love, the kind that involves a nice middle class life with a house and two cars and clothes from Ann Taylor Loft and seems only to exist between the moderately attractive people who appear on these shows. Love and commitment and marriage are all discussed at length, and all from the same totally bizarre viewpoint, namely, that said things are prizes, and can be won on tv. This is our favorite part of the whole freaky setup: the diehard belief that the “right person” is out there for you, and more specifically, is in a group of a dozen or so meatheads some producer picked. Wow, some luck! A whole world full of people and my soul mate was selected by a casting agent!

Finally, could anything be more unattractive than a bunch of dudes showing off for a woman? It’s actually gross. It reduces men to one-dimensional grunters, and although we don’t feel sorry for anyone who voluntarily goes on reality tv, we do hate to witness this kind of humiliation. These guys are so busy elbowing each other and jockeying for some imaginary position, that broad could save herself a lot of effort by just giving them a bunch of liquor and waiting to see who is left standing. Strongest male with best genes wins, gets to spread genes to offspring. Let’s strip the veneer of culture off this mess and get straight up biological. It could be called The Reproducer. Who will win $36,000 and the right to reproduce on this season’s THE REPRODUCER? Tune in to find out! It’s only a matter of time.