I give up: Shallow Hal Coors Light Wingman needed.
I’m a single 34-year-old straight white male living in Manhattan. I have an advanced degree, I’m clean cut and in shape, I’m responsible, and like every other yuppie tool in this city, I work in finance.
My “fake” problem:
I’m stuck in an extended dance remix of adolescence. There is simply nothing about this city to remind me to grow up and ditch self-centered, hedonistic retarded behavior. Noting as much, the following holds true: I go to bed at 6:00 A.M. on the weekends. I play Grand Theft Auto on my Play Station 2. I watch “The Best of Back Yard Wrestling” and “Bum Fights” on DVD before I go out at night. I program my Match.com account to troll for women between the ages of 18 – 30. I own, and sadly terrorize my co-workers with, a remote control fart machine that emits 7 different fart noises (I stuck it in the ceiling above the copier). If I thought I could get away with it, I’d run around in Yoda themed pajamas and set small animals on fire.
Other than paying bills on time and returning work e-mails promptly, I don’t do anything even remotely adult-like. I’m worried, because all of my friends back home (Texas) are now married and working on kids. My brother is 32 and his life is moving in a “substantive” direction, insofar as he has a J. Crew model bride and a little kid that my parents go gaga over. He’s normal. I feel that I’m not. In fact, my dad thinks I’m a fruit and suggests as much whenever I come home for the holidays.
“If you’re gay, it’s OK,” he says after his second scotch and water.
Sadly, and contrary to my father’s Will & Grace assessment, I date women at will in NYC. This month I’ve gone out with a 28 year-old municipal bond salesmen from Merrill Lynch and a busty blonde 25-year-old administrative assistant from CSFB (she was from Alabama). They were both ultimately eliminated from girlfriend consideration because 1) the Merrill girl’s butt was a little too beefy, and 2) the CSFBer lived in Alphabet City – home of heroin addicts and non-existent subway access. Yes, I agree, both were shallow and shitty rationales for dismissal.
So, noting that I’m a piece of crap, and noting that my best bud just moved to NJ to settle down and get married, I just have to ask - does any other late 20-something or 30-something guy in Manhattan act like this? Am I alone in this Pee-Wee Herman submarine? Yes or no? If you exhibit any of the aforementioned characteristics, then let me ask you the following:
Would you like to hang out, chase tail, and be my wingman?
I’m well versed in wingman-ish behaviors – peeing on myself, cock-blocking sober fat girls, screaming “Shock ‘n Awe!” whenever I sink a ball on the pool table, etc. - and I’m being totally serious.
E-mail me if you like the following:
Girls with long stringy hair who favor expensive handbags, tight low-rise jeans, and stiletto heels.
Girls who congregate near the bars inside Tao, Spice Market, or Pastis.
Girls who work in advertising, publishing or PR.
Girls who routinely drop cell phones and I-Pods into poo and tampon filled toilets.
Girls who have a knack for giggling and falling down.
Girls who have a knack for giggling, falling down and vomiting.
Girls who breeze up to the velvet rope, cheek kiss the doorman, and then waltz past 20 person deep lines at Marquee, Cain, PM, etc.
Girls who receive death stares from their invisible chunky monkey female co-workers.
Girls who can’t function without a copy of In Style or Us magazine.
Girls who are shown overwhelming workplace favoritism despite a tendency to show up at the office at noon wearing dirty Ugg boots and sweatpants.*
Girls who live in Jersey, Long Island, or Manhattan.
Girls who do not live on the Lower East Side, in Park Slope, or Williamsburg.
Girls who attempt to pay for things on maxed out credit cards.
Girls who unthinkingly say “Oops!” after their credit cards are denied.
Girls who walk out of department stores with initially denied items in tow after said items were spontaneously purchased by an unhappily married attorney named David.
Girls who wear lace thongs or “boy short” panties.
Girls who think nothing of grinding on similarly built girlfriends whenever Usher’s “Yeah” comes on.
Girls with tribal themed tattoos.
Girls with hoop earrings.
Girls with boob jobs courtesy of surgeons who advertise in the NY Post.
Girls with endless stories about getting propositioned for weekend getaways in St. Tropez.
Girls who know what the interior of Jeter’s apartment looks like.
Girls who do not have aspirations to adopt deformed babies or build outdoor latrines in Guatemala.
I get shot down a lot by the above, but I don’t really care. After living in NYC for 4 years, my ego is more or less made out of Kevlar and coated in Teflon. Besides, successful interaction with women is just a numbers game – it’s about volume – the more girls you interact with the better your odds.
So if you like hot girls, and you’re a cool, marketable, albeit immature, Manhattan guy between 27 and 38, and you’re unopposed to pre-partying on Saturday nights with Madden NFL 2005, a 32 oz. Taco Bell cup filled with Stoli and whatever, and a Judas Priest / 50 Cent mash remix pumping in the background, let me know.
I think you could be my Coors Light Wingman.