To: Diary
From: Phil
Date: October 07, 2006
Subject: Re: Older women

Dear Diary,

What is up with my crushes on older women? From famous celebrities/actresses like perrenial girl next door Meg Ryan (1961) and UN Goodwill Ambassador Julia Ormond (1965) to teachers and friends like — well, you don’t really expect me to spill the beans to a diary that lacks even the most rudimentary lock, do you?

Do you think it’s just a phase, oh wise Diary? Like punk/goth looks or turning sympathetic eyes towards Hawaiian t-shirts and flared out jeans, will this fad disappear into the depths of the attic, only to resurface decades later in dusty boxes marked ‘Yearbooks’?

It’s simply not healthy, dear Diary. First thing tomorrow, I’m hitting the malls and whistling at some 18-20 year old bleached blonde with the low-rise jeans, dangly earrings, Gap tank top, and of course, yellow flashy thong.

Ever Yours,
Phil

Sometimes, just sometimes, I feel that my true calling in life is as a famous chick-lit writer.

To: Phil
From: Hopeless Geek
Date: October 01, 2006
Subject: dating women

Dating bar fly good or bad? Also what about dating emo woman? I just broke up with my girlfriend after 3-4 weeks of dating due to a few differences and I would like your thought’s on dating the two types I have motioned. and were would good places be to go looking for the ladies? I heard of super market’s and church.

Hopeless Geek

To: Hopeless Geek
From: Phil
Date: October 02, 2006
Subject: Re: dating women

Dear Mr. Geek,

As an amateur yet blossomming chick-lit writer, I’ve decided to write a little story on your behalf. Every bloke should know how to pick up a chick at the supermarket (or a church). So sit back, grab a beer, and enjoy this little narrative on how it really works.

As I reached forward to grab the scrumptious Lipton’s Chicken Noodle Soup© from the shelf, a slender hand appeared in the corner of my eye and made a grab for the same can. I looked up. And I saw her. She saw me. And we laughed. What a wonderful laugh she had - throaty, confident, and full of cheer. Our eyes met and it was like magic.

‘That’s mine.’ she said with a smile on her Crest-whitened teeth. She had dimples. Cute. Definately cute.

I shot her a look like the one Humphrey Bogart used on Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca. A look that said, ‘I want you, baby. You’re all mine and I want you now.’

‘Baby, I’m keeping the soup,’ I said, deadpan, ‘And I’m keepin’ yous too.’

It was then that I realized it. We were meant for each other. Love at first sight. Sparks flew then and there: Aisle 9. Soup, Pasta, and Sauces.

‘Clean up in Aisle 9. Clean up in Aisle 9.’ went the PA system. Undistracted and so enamoured by this veritable angel I had found in the soup section, I was contemplating an overtake of the PA system in order to announce ‘Love in Aisle 9. Love in Aisle 9.’ Cheesy, I know. But I didn’t care.

I wanted her here. I wanted her now. Right here over the broken bottle of pickles. If we wanted to be adventurous, we could even sneak into Aisle 8: Whip cream and Hot Oils. We could barely keep our hands off each other as we rushed to my pad. There, we savoured a night of passionate love-making. Bosums heaving. Shirt buttons catapulting through the air.

‘First thing, come morning,’ she whispered in my ear later in the night, ‘I’m going to make you some Lipton’s Chicken Noodle Soup©’.

‘First thing, come morning,’ I whispered back, ‘I am so posting this on my blog. They were right after all. You can pick up babes at the supermarket’.

A month ago…

“How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”, I said rather nonchalantly.

She looked at me for a second with a bemused expression on her face, then laughed.

“Older than you, that’s for sure.”

“How old?”

“I’m forty.”

My jaw opened wide as I not-so-smoothly stalled, shifted to reverse, and backed up hastily.

“I thought you were younger”, was the only thing I could think of to mumble.

At this point, she started to laugh, then through teary-eyed mirth, gasped something about “Oil of Olay doing its job”.

Mortified, I sent a silent prayer up to God and begged Him to send a lightning bolt down and swiftly end my humiliation.

This goes out to the girl who told me, rather matter-of-factly, that I would never be able to understand something as complex as a woman’s behaviour through mere Mathematics.

Unfortunately, if you ever try to graph that function, your computer will probably take on a life of its own, hook up with your other desktop, take all your money, then dump your sorry ass.

Anyways, we never liked you anyways, so nyah nyah, nyah nyah.

let’s be honest

This is a group of very horny men finding an excuse to oogle at women, grunt, scratch our balls, and finally assign to the poor girl a very special number from the depths of our heart — a number which will represent her queue in our nightly slumber.

When it comes to male testosterone and hormonal angst, nobody, and I do mean nobody, is more of an expert than my good friend Dave.

I have many peculiar qualities. One of the most bothersome (at least for others) is that I foster an unusual distaste of Asian culture, Asian appearence, and consequently, Asian women. I don’t find them as attractive North American or European lasses and have rarely — if ever — given any Asian girl a second look.

Why I have such a vile distrust and dislike of Asians is a complex question and has no place in this post devoted entirely to oogling at women. You heard me, sister.

So weeks ago, I admitted to Dave that I had, in my hopeless quest, found a single redeeming female among the Asian race.

“Omigod.” he said, “She must be really hot.”

I nodded. “What do you think of Tifa?”, I casually inquired.

“The only Asian girl you’ve ever found attractive is a computer generated fictional character from a video game?”

I don’t know what it is about her. Perhaps it’s the fact she can totally kick my ass. Perhaps it’s because she’s voiced by the very cute Rachael Leigh Cook. Or hell, maybe it’s because she’s low maintanance and doesn’t need to me to bring her flowers to woo her and shit.

I was in love.

Then recently, Dave decided to reopen the discussion under the guise of a blog post.

The rules are simple. Dave posts a picture of an Asian girl, his readers vote on a scale of 1-5, and I chime in with my careful analysis at the conclusion.

Make no mistake folks, this isn’t a research into the inner pysche of Phil. This isn’t an exploration into the subjective and personal nature of physical beauty. This isn’t even a rational, logical discussion involving racial differences.

This is a group of very horny men finding an excuse to oogle at women, grunt, scratch our balls, and finally assign to the poor girl a very special number from the depths of our heart — a number which will represent her queue in our nightly slumber.

Well, I warned you girls, didn’t I?

First up was the well known Korean popstar and model Hyori Lee.

My research: I immediately contacted my cousin, a premiere source on all things Asian.

My conclusions: Only the most outrageous of liars would say she’s unnattractive. I get the idea that she wants to be all cute and polite, then her jackass of an agent whispers into her ear, “Hyroti! You Asia Britney Spears! You show slutty. You show skanky. Hyroti! Hayaaaaah!“

Yeah, we really do talk like that when we’re alone.

Anyways, when she’s not wearing too much makeup and not striking some ridiculous pout, she does have a certain allure. Otherwise, she just looks like she’s trying too hard.