My dearest Man Repeller,
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways...
Well I don't really love thee because I am tragically and biologically inclined to love the male gender (thus, man-repelling becomes imperative) and I hate counting because mathematics is for calculators and I, my friend, abandoned such frivolity when I was a mere schoolgirl because somewhere, deep inside my man-attracted loins, I knew I would need to arm myself (the arm party being my weapon of choice, of course) against mother nature's plan for my empty womb and that the only path towards defending the sanctity of my reproductive organs against the intruding protrusion of the male specimen was to study the ancient and widely unknown art of man-repelling.
Since that day I have been repelling with ever-evolving skill, however, I now feel myself stumbling about in my quest and, accordingly, in my 5-inch platforms; hearing the call of that talking tree in Disney's Pocahontas beckoning me to give in to my pre-ordained baby-making destiny. Now more than ever, I need a mentor to show me the way of a true man-repeller. Now more than ever, I need me a pair of over-sized birth-control glasses.
But why do you need me, you say? Because:
- I would work my BUM off for you. The implications of this being that I would therefore lack a bum, and would instead possess a continuation of my back where once there WAS a bum. I can recall from the hormone-heavy days of middle school learning that boys do not like a buttocks area which does not permit unbridled groping opportunities. Translation: I would be your wing-man-repeller, like Batman and Robin, Bonnie and Clyde,Thelma and Louise (just please refrain from driving off any cliffs with me in the front seat).
- I would never steal your shoes but only salivate profusely over them. I thus recommend purchasing some sturdy, water-proof shoe boxes.
- I blog and play dress-up. I also occasionally eat and sleep.
- I am the underdog, namely due to the fact that I live in a town where tractor-causing traffic jams are an everyday nuisance and Abercrombie & Fitch is haute-couture. And who doesn't love an underdog? Cat-lovers, that's who.
- Like you, I can look REALLY good when I try hard enough. For instance...
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| armed and dangerous |
- This would be a dream-come-true. You could be my fairy godmother and I swear I would never lose a shoe, glass-slipper or not, during a man-fleeing attempt.
And just for good measure, let me show you how I repel...
And so it begins. I have here a see-through (gasp!) white lace top which some would deem "sexy" but which I see as prime man-repellent material. Time to uglify...
Step 1: COVER UP THOSE NIPS in a gold bandeau bra, which, being gold, conjures up in the male-mind images of Goldmember, and therefore the peen, and therefore they will have forgotten that I even HAVE boobs.
Step 2: Slap on a pair of shorts which possess an uncanny resemblance to a baby diaper. Let's call them Pamper's Pants. Some might even say that this picture could be classified as child pornography. Uh oh...
Step 3: Curves, be gone! Dress like a bright yellow square.
Step 4: Forget the arm-party, let's have an arm fiesta! Because every party needs salsa and chips, and at least one obnoxiously large sombrero.
Step 5: Add a fur clutch. Men love dead things on women, right? Right?
Step 7: More jewelry!
Step 8: Tur-baaaaaand.
Step 9: Wooden clogs and socks to eradicate any thoughts of dainty feet.
Bippidy Boppidy BOO! Man-repellant, you done good! No babies for me!
And if that was not enough to convince you of my man-repelling prowess, consider that I am a superbly awkward 5 feet, 3 inches, ergo, optimal mini-me material. Think about it, there could be a midget following you around every day of the week!
Together, let us combat the overpopulation of the planet and instill in the male psyche a deep fear of fur, fringe, bow-ties and grandpa sweaters.
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