Tag Archives: romance

He MIGHT be That Into You. I Really Can’t Tell.

13 Feb

Hello and welcome to romance. Welcome to love. It’s almost Valentine’s Day and most likely, if you don’t already have a special someone to buy things for or eat food with, you’re desperately clamoring for one–searching through your phone’s address book, trying to find a contact that would be easy enough to go out with you at a moment’s notice, but not so easy that, after you make reservations with your restaurant, you’d have to make reservations with your doctor.

In the spirit of love and all that, I decided to write my own self-help book on relationships. Here’s the pitch for the cover:

I thought I would take out a few notable passages in order to not only help you with your relationship woes, but to also plug the shit out of my book.

Kyle,

So the other day me and my boyfriend were on the couch and we were watching Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. It was a really emotional episode, so we were both starting to get a case of the sniffles. It was the first time I’d ever seen my boyfriend cry. He told me that I was the only person he felt safe crying in front of.

Here’s my question: Is my boyfriend gay?

Thanks for your help,

Anna

Anna,

You’re a horrible person. Be single forever.

Happy to help,

Kyle.

Boom. Problem solved. See? Sometimes, certain people need to be single forever so as to not sully our gene pool. This woman is painfully intolerant. Do you want your child to go to school with the child of someone as ethically short-sighted as this? No. This woman is unfit for breeding. Once she comes to grips with this, she’ll never have to worry about dating again. You could be one of those people that don’t have to worry anymore! You! Right there! So take refuge in the fact that your solitude and your heart-breaking loneliness are harbingers of great joy and progress to the rest of us. Don’t try to call us about it, though. We’re all busy having sex.

This book isn’t just for women, though. There are a few chapters directed toward men.

Men are simple creatures. Women, you’ll find that all it takes to get into a man’s heart is to care for him, stand by him–love him. Men love love and most men love loving women. Some men love loving other men. There are also some men who love God’s more romantic animals–like horses, goats, and dogs in people-clothes.

No matter what men love, though, understanding that love is a constant source of confusion. You want to know why your boyfriend forgot your anniversary? Because he has spent the previous 364 days trying to figure out a mathematical quantity for how much he loves you (it’s in the bazillions of gallounces).

In light of this confusion, I’ve created a number of sports analogues to help your man make sense of the love he has for you.

When to know how to ask a girl out. When to know when to give a girl some space. All of these are tricky, tricky issues. I’m here for you, though.

When trying to figure when it’s right to move in or back off of a girl, imagine Peyton Manning.

Imagine him.

All you need is poise. Don’t rush the throw. I know you’re going to feel the defense moving in on you, rushers crowding in. You want to get the ball out of your hands–you feel like you need to make a play–but beware, brave warrior. If you let go of the ball too fast, you could throw an interception or an incompletion. If you wait too long, afraid to make a move, you could get sacked.

So, don’t throw it too fast or too slow. Read the defense, take your time, but don’t be afraid to act when the time comes–like when you both bump into each other in line for beer or when she glances at you after you sneeze.

When you’re in a relationship, resist all temptation to tell your partner he/she/it is “the one.” Doing this before you’re actually married (or absolutely positive you’re going to get married) is like predicting a no-hitter at the bottom of the fifth. It’s bad luck, it’s not necessary, and it just makes it so when/if the relationship/pitcher fails, everybody’s a hell of a lot madder at you.

Too much celebration after sex, much like after a touch down, is at times off-putting and, in the least, ill-advised. Get past the goal line, hand the ball to the ref, and walk back to the side-line like scoring touchdowns (and hot chicks) is just another day in the office for you.

Oh, and one more thing: it’s always safe to steal second. Just go ahead and do it.

With that, I bring my brief tutorial on love to an end–any more, and I’ve have to ask you to pay me. I hope your Valentine’s Day, whether spent in romance or with friends or in bitter self-loathing, is fun, safe, and fortuitous.

Good luck, space man.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

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A Date. A Big, Fat, Stinkin’ Date.

27 Jan

Sometimes I go on dates. These things–these dates–are at the same time fantastic, wonderizing, fantastiful, and grandiosious. [Editor’s Note: Those last three words don’t exist. I even checked the “IronKyle’s Fancy Words” dictionary you gave me when I came on last March.] [Kyle’s Note: Did you check the back?] [Editor’s Note: The back? I thought dictionaries were in alphabetical order.] [Kyle’s Note: Oh. Hm. Well, add those three. To the back.]

This past weekend, or maybe the weekend before that, I can’t remember [peyote], I went on a date. I went on a date with a woman.

This woman.

That’s where I picked her up from. That’s not her house, though. The location in that image there is what I call my “proving grounds.” She’s standing next to the sex room. You see, I’m trying to breed champions. You think I’m going to breed a champion with some chick I meet up with at a Starbucks? You think I’m going to breed a champion with some woman that needs to be picked up in the palatial, soft surroundings of a home? You think wrong.

The probing [Editor’s Redaction] proving grounds are located off an industrial road in Denton, Texas. I tell my date that my car is on the fritz, and that I need her to come pick me up. She comes to pick me up, hat in hand (I also tell her to bring her favorite hat.), and begins the arduous process of finding what would resemble a front door. I then jump out of the shadows, scare her, steal her hat (to show her that nothing is forever) and run away to hide. I’m wearing a disguise (glasses) and I’m moving very fast, so she thinks she’s just been robbed by a stranger. She’s lost, afraid, confused, and hopefully, violently vengeful.

I leave a gun behind with a single round left in the chamber. I then make a mannequin of myself sleeping on a bench. If the woman approaches the mannequin and shoots it, we go on our date. If the woman uses the gun as a threatening object to get her hat back, we go on a slightly less romantic date. If she uses the gun to take her own life, we go to the quarry, where she rests forever.

I never get to see the results of Annemarie’s test, though, as she saw a cat in some trash, forgot all about her hat, and spent an hour or so chasing the stray around the and singing to herself.

Eventually, the cat runs into a gutter, she gives up, and we get in the car to begin discussing our plans for the evening.

Avatar?” I ask, smiling one of my most potently charming smiles–my Dennis Quaid smile.

So potent.

“Why do you look like a fifty year old man right now?” Annemarie asks, edging herself to the far end of her seat.

“Because I’m fifty,” I say, not at all thinking before I speak.

“What?”

“Let’s go see Avatar,” I say.

The movie theater’s parking lot resembles a used car dealership. The place is packed–absolutely packed.

“This place is packed,” Annemarie says.

“Absolutely packed,” I say, winking. Annemarie gives me a look that promises thousands of hand jobs to come. “Thousands of them,” I say, just above a whisper–still looking deeply into Annemarie’s eyes. She reaches into her purse.

“I have mace,” she says.

We buy our tickets. Our tickets are cheap-ish.

“I’ve been waiting forever to see this movie!” Annemarie says, jubilant.

We walk into the theater and find our seats. As packed as the theater was, it wasn’t too hard to find two seats for me and my yellow-haired she-devil.

The movie goes well. With a 165 minute run time, I had plenty of time to inch my hand from my lap, to the armrest, to her knee, to her thigh, to her boob, then back to my lap to start the whole thing over again. Each boob-cycle takes approximately 45 minutes.

For dinner, we went to a local Chinese or Japanese or Korean or Vietnamese place called “Mr. Chopsticks.” The food there is good, the atmosphere enjoyable, but it can get a little expensive for my taste (There is no dollar menu). So, here, I employ another stage of testing for my date–charity. When the bill comes, I look it over, set it down and reach into my pocket for my wallet. As I’m taking it out, I fumble it and drop my wallet on the ground.

“Oh, crap,” I say. I lift it up, dust it off and then open and close it, inspecting it. I start to look increasingly frustrated, then put it down on the table. “It’s broken. The damn thing is broken. I’m going to have to get a new one!” I sigh loudly and lean back in my seat, exasperated.

“You can’t j–” Annemarie says, reaching across the table for my wallet. I quickly snatch the wallet and shove it into my pocket.

“AH! It’s just so broken.” I shrug my shoulders and make an “I don’t know” gesture. “Do you mind just paying this once? It’d really help me out. I have to buy a new wallet.”

“Uh, yea, I guess,” Annemarie says. Good. Good.

She pays. She pays well.

The drive home is filled with witty conversation by me. I’m very witty. Annemarie does a fantastic job of sitting quietly and laughing at the appropriate times. She’s so good at that. We reach her house and I walk her to her door. There’s that momentary pause when we’re both trying to decide if a kiss is in order. I decide that one is. She decides that I smell like soy sauce and nervousness. I lean in and she ducks to her left, skillfully.

She laughs and raises her hands in a karate-like defense pose. “Quick reflexes.” I love a woman with quick reflexes. I’m so excited. I want to see the reflexes in action again. I just can’t wait. I draw my hand back and bring it forward with terrible speed. She’s nowhere near fast enough to duck it and a punch her square in the head. She falls over limply and lands in a bush.

“Crap.” I say. “Crap crap crap.” I shake my head, looking down at her unconscious frame lying in the shrubs. “Your reflexes are crap, Annemarie.” I pick her up, put her in a sitting position, kiss two of my fingers and lay them to rest on her forehead. “Goodbye, you beautiful bitch,” I say. Then I get in my car and go home to blog about my experience.

The End.


Getting Girls to Like You

11 Jul

Hey, guys.

Getting girls to like you is stressful and incredibly difficult–not to mention dangerous and possibly bloody. Personally, being a successful musician-turned-writer, I’ve never had trouble meeting women. Here’s a promo shot of me from back in the day:

Man, do I miss that haircut.

*This might be John Stamos

The problem with women loving musicians and artists is that most of you aren’t those things. Most of you are normal. Most of you look like this:

Not so bad.

Not so bad?

Granted, that is a lovely pair of suspenders, but other than that, there’s not a whole lot here that you would call “striking.” So what am I getting at? There’s a lot more to getting a girl than good looks (unless you’re really good looking). I’m going to show you those things.

1. Don’t ignore your appearance entirely.

Your appearance is kind of important. Girls don’t like coveralls like they used to. They no longer get into acid wash jeans. And believe me, they are not impressed by your vast array of free blood donation t-shirts. Get ready for a metaphor: there could be a sweet ass ride parked on your driveway, but if it’s covered in pig vomit, you’re going to be a bit hesitant to get behind the wheel. Girls aren’t perfect (WHAT?!), they can guilty of judging a book by its cover just like us men can. Take pride in how you look. A nice pair of jeans or a button up shirt can easily take any guy from a four to a six.  So let this be a lesson to you–wear some clean clothes, comb your hair, and do not cover yourself in pig vomit.

2. Be genuine and honest.

Women are smart. They get stuff. They get stuff that us, as men, do not (Cooking, sewing, why Sex and the City has even a nominal shread of entertainment value). One thing women “get” is constructive criticism. Here, I’ll show you what I mean. The other day my girlfriend and I decided to go to the art museum in Fort Worth. While we were there I had the… you know what? Just read the transcription:

Katie: Kyle, look at this one! (Points to a portrait of St. Jude.)

Kyle: Uh oh, careful there.

Katie: What?

Kyle: (Incredulous, whispers) Katie, don’t play dumb. You know what I’m talking about.

Katie: Kyle, I’m not kidding. I have no idea what I need to be “careful” about.

Kyle: You’re pointing like a man.

Katie: (Stares back blankly)

Kyle: (Buys Katie a Sex and the City box set)

See how well she took that? Women see constructive criticism as an opportunity to better themselves, especially when it deals with their physical appearance. It would be completely appropriate to, upon seeing your female in an ugly blouse, say lovingly “Ew.” or “Fuck you for that blouse.” or “Those shorts might look better on a skinny person.” Women love and appreciate honesty. Be honest. Notice their appearance and you will be rewarded (with sexy time).

3. Listen and engage her in conversation (with your penis).

OK, not with your penis. That was a joke. Your penis can’t talk. Right?

Women love a good listener, but a person who only listens and never contributes is like a word thief or a Somalian conversation pirate (Remember a couple of months ago? The pirates?). So, always be ready with what you’re going to say about midway through her sentence. You want to fire back quickly so you appear intelligent. Here’s an example:

“Yea, so, I dyed my hair and decided that it was time to start my new life, to leave my alcoholism and drug abuse behind me.”

“Yea? What color did your hair used to be?”

Brilliant. That guy is a Don Juan, a cassanova, a George Clooney. He is, as literature would say, an “unblushing libertine.” I love those last couple of words. I do.

Conclusion

Three steps is enough for you to think I tried, right? I sure as hell hope so, because that’s all I’m doing. With these tips, you should be more than prepared to procure any beautiful lady who happens to tickle your fancy. Believe in yourself, believe in my tips, believe in miracles. You’re a superstar. You’re god’s most beautiful creation. You’re art.

Later.

Your friend,

Kyle.

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