How close is TOO close?

The other day I was at my desk and one of the girls came over to ask me a question:
“How do I copy and paste this?” she asks.
I replied, “Did you try the copy and paste options up top?” Crystal clear.
"Oh, yeah" she says...

Maybe if she would have opened her eyes it would have saved me from an uncomfortable experience. Come to think of it, her computer illiteracy inspired me to speak up.

Bottom line, this question could have easily been “googled”.

Google me this interwebs?!

Do you think invading my personal space is acceptable in today’s society? I’m sorry I do not want to smell the tuna sandwich you had for lunch, nor do I care to smell your horrible perfume [GLENDALE!] And the last time I checked, belly to elbow is unnecessary.

You have your bubble.
I have my bubble.
Please stay out.

Let’s do an exercise - stand up and do a helicopter (a sprinkler will suffice). If you hit someone in the process – do not apologize, repeat this exercise until they fully remove themself from your bubble.

_{[Belly to elbow is defined as such: trespassing in my bubble to the point where I can feel the baby in your belly kicking my elbow.]}

Backless

I was on Austin's famed 6th Street with a group of friends. We were going to an Indian dance party hosted at one of the local clubs. There was a long line to get in, because Indians love their Bollywood music. Walking through the line, we see a lot of girls styling fashionable outfits. Not a bad view. We take our place in the back of the line. Not a good view. Why? Because of the backless shirts and dresses.

Every one of these girls sporting the backless had bacne. And look, it was dark and there was a lot of commotion--so we aren't talking about a light blemish. I mean, one of these rotund women--her back was like the Pacific Ring of Fire of puss volcanoes. One glimpse of that and I was done for the night. I told my then-girlfriend that we had to go. She protested. She wanted to dance.* I told her my reason and she didn't understand. I calmly explained to her: What would happen if this pumpkin of a woman rubbed her bacne against my arm or something? I'd have to amputate. And then my ability to sexually pleasure my girlfriend would be greatly diminished.

She agreed that this was a weighty risk. We decided to rap our arms in extra Wal-Mart bags that I kept in the car. It was an okay night, but it was really hot in those plastic bags. I sweat through my favorite shirt. Fucking backless.

Some of you may think I am being overly harsh on women. No. Same with men. When I go to the gym, I often encounter these roided-out gym rats who wear some kind of ripped, cut-off up under shirt. Much of their back and inevitable bacne is exposed. It's awful. You know what's even worse. The other day in the locker room--this fucking meathead was naked and he was talking about his sacne. Yeah--that'll make a mess of your lunch.

*: See my previous post Women Don't Actually Like To Dance--They Just Like To Say They Like To Dance.

Women Don't Actually Like To Dance--They Just Like To Say They Like To Dance

I go out with these friends of mine from grade/high school--all female. They were all sub-5s (out of the 10.1 "repeating" scale).*

So, we start out with a lame-ish house party. It wasn't terrible. There were huge speakers stacked on top of each other blasting classics like: Informer by Snow; Enter the Sandman by Metallica; and, of course, Tubthumping by Chumba Wumba. Oh yes, it was dress up too. Many shortish men wearing suits bought from Ross:Dress for Less. One guy didn't have a shirt on--he did have a tie on his bare hairy chest. It wasn't real chest hair. It was the Asian mustache of chest hair.

I didn't dress up. Why? Because my $7,000 suit is too good for the riff raff. C'mon! But also because my female friends--a.k.a., women--wanted to go out dancing.

We get ourselves to this bar. It's already about 12:15. I figure we got ourselves like an hour and a half to break it down. And I can break it down. But, apparently, by "dancing" women mean that they want to go to the bar, take 30 minutes to order drinks, sip the drinks slowly from a straw, then--when some Kei$ha song comes on--pump their fists twice and do some awkward scuba/ass shake move. Dancing: check.

This was no dress-up, house party. The bar had some musical class. They played: What About Love? by Heart; This Is How We Do It by Montell Jordan; and even some Rick Astley. I was rick roll'd. My female friends were not.

In summation, women do not like to dance. Women like to say they like to/want to dance.

Sub-rant:
Too many people say "That girl was a 10." nowadays. She wasn't a 10. Shut up. If you weren't ejaculating upon the sight of her, she wasn't a 10. Even if you were, it doesn't count if you were that creepy guy who sits in libraries. And it doesn't count if you just have no control over your release. But this is a losing battle. So now I have developed the 10.1 "repeating" scale. Because no one says "10.1 'repeating.'" Somebody will say 10.1, or maybe 10.11, or maybe even a 10.111. And that just means she wasn't perfect.