Anthony Weiner Reveals His Poor Taste On Twitter

I always scoff at public scandal stories, especially those as limp as the tale of Anthony Weiner’s Twitter exploits.

I know very little of the Weiner in question. Only that he’s a New York congressman who is presumably walking around, this very second, with his palms superglued to his face. But what I do find amusing is the magnitude of his fuck-up.

For those who haven’t heard the story, Weiner has managed to cover himself in poor taste by sending photos of his crotch – adorned in grey underpants – to a female user on Twitter. Instead of privately messaging the picture, he managed to send it publicly using the “@” tag.

By fucking up to this extent, anybody with such little enjoyment in his life that he would be browsing Weiner’s page miscellaneously, will have copped a flabbergasting view of the congressman’s junk.

I would pay many pesos to capture the moment in time when he realised his mistake, but realise it he did. A few moments later, the tweet was deleted and a false claim that the account had been hacked arrived in a late bid to save his bacon.

Obviously it didn’t work, as Weiner is now spilling beans about his exchanging of images with multiple women, and how very sorry he is for the sleaze.

To be honest, I couldn’t care less about the political implications. For one, I’m not from New York. And secondly, I personally think there are much greater sins to hold a politician accountable for than the accidental unveiling of his junk.

But I do see two very clear examples of poor taste in this whole charade.

1. Grey underpants? Seriously…grey underpants? What age do I have to turn before this kind of garment suddenly feels stylish? I’m definitely not feeling it yet.

2. Is Twitter really the best place to find woman to exchange photos with? The majority of female users on my Twitter account are robots disguised in marketable cleavage avatars. And even if you do stumble upon a real woman, how are you going to move from “Hello” to “Want to see my crotch?” in 140 characters or less?

Poor taste Weiner. Very poor taste indeed.

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The Ugly Bug Ball Has Landed…

I was listening to the radio yesterday when I caught wind of a brand new dating site, one that seems to be taking the UK by storm. But it wasn’t a typical dating site. There was no mention of the beautiful singles you could be meeting tonight.

No, the twist was that this was a dating site for…ugly people.

Welcome to The Ugly Bug Ball. Shit just got real.

I’m all for sharing the love, but I do hate some of the conclusions that people arrive at to compensate for a lack of confidence in their looks.

Firstly, “Ugly people have had a tougher life and therefore tend to be more considerate and more loyal. A recent TUBB survey also proved that they try harder in bed.”

Is that a fact? Ugly people try harder in bed? I can see the logic, but come on, let’s be honest. It’s complete bullshit. A tooth fairy fantasy made up to keep the walrus from weeping. It’s paramount to saying that if your features are in the right order, you’re the kind of cretin who sits back and waits for the next blowjob.

I don’t buy the correlation between being ugly and being a good shag. But I can live with it. After all, the site seems to be developed in a good spirit.

Apparently over 15,000 UK folks have signed up to it already. That’s impressive going for a site that boldly insists only the aesthetically challenged may enter. I can just imagine some of the cheesy intro lines being passed back and forth from inbox to inbox.

Behold the Ugly Bug “dating truth”, as they like to call it:

a) We don’t charge much as the pretty sites and b) Ugly people have lower expectations – for a first date a Family Bucket will usually do the trick.

Way to add morbid obesity in to the ugly equation! Brilliant.

I won’t be adding my own avatar to The Ugly Bug Ball. For obvious reasons, I hope you understand. It would probably be the final crushing blow to my fragile ego if I couldn’t get any action on a site that’s dedicated to the romantically disadvantaged.

But it’s an interesting creation. If I’m still single at forty, expect to see me at the Ball!

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I’m In A Relationship. It’s Complicated.

It’s been quite a while since my last post. You could be forgiven for assuming that I’ve fallen in to some kind of rickety half arsed relationship. But I haven’t. Instead, I’ve been scratching my head at others who seemingly have.

Yes, the “complicated relationship”. The romance that’s legitimate enough to go on Facebook, but somehow fucked up enough to make you the laughing stock of your friends and the head shaking pity of strangers.

I haven’t yet understood the reason behind switching your status to a complicated relationship on Facebook. Why the fuck would you want the rest of the world to know? It’s generally the choice of whiny emo bitches who feel the need to claim taken status, without actually having the…you know, commitment to merit it. These are exactly the kind of posers I end up deleting from my Facebook.

Secondly, if you’ve been dating somebody for several months, and you make the effort to change your status so that it says “Hi, we’re still dating, it’s just gotten complicated”, what do you expect people to assume? The sex has dried up? The warts have been exposed? Or maybe cheating has chiseled a hole in the once strong romance you used to be such a smug bastard about? Either way, I don’t need to know. Nobody needs to know.

The real fun comes from guessing whether their partners are actually aware that their relationships have developed complications overnight. And then when it all explodes, please tell me I’m not the only one to analyze which party is “single” and which is in an unmarked relationship? Always helpful for working out who did the dumping…

Personally, I’m reluctant to tell the world even if I’ve been in a solid relationship for several months. Partly because that very rarely happens and partly because I like to retain a hint of what was once referred to as a private life.

Or am I just clinically insane?

Another bunch of sour grapes I’d like to address involves the misuse of a famous Marilyn Monroe quote. You may have seen it floating around on your wall. It goes a little like this:

“I’m selfish, impatient, and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can’t handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don’t deserve me at my best”

Now if Marilyn Monroe had been alive in 2010, maybe she’d have the grace and class to get away with posting something so up it’s own arse. But some of the girls I’ve seen relaying the message as their status updates…well let’s just say if there happened to be a “wishful thinking” button next to “like”, I’d be well used to hammering it by now.

You’re not Marilyn, darling. And as for handling you at your worst? Marilyn Fucking Manson looks sweeter on the blob.

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The Worst Kind Of Facebook Rape

One of the great things about Facebook, for me personally, has been the ability to reconnect with old school friends. The chance to see if my predictions of where people would end up are anything close to the reality.

I’ve gotta be honest. Nothing gives me a greater thrill than glancing over the profile of a girl who spurned me all those years ago and being able to think to myself…thank God I avoided that.

You bet I’m a man to hold grudges. When I look back on high school romance, the term “a joke” springs to mind. Especially in my case. But it was a joke that meant something in my blazer and tie. So if the cutie from my class didn’t respond to the suggestion that I actually quite fancied her a bit, then I’m definitely going to remember.

It’s petty and childish, I know. I dare not even wonder what the same girl would think of my own profile if she saw it now. You know, with the thousand plus photos of drunken shame, unmissable Stella red eye and countless shenanigans where I nearly always look awful. Facebook has opened up all new doors of voyeurism in to the lives of people we’d barely call acquaintances if we landed on the same god damn dancefloor.

Not only do I enjoy peering in to the love lives of the ones that got away, but I also love to Facebook stalk those who weren’t so lucky. The amount of times I’ve found myself flicking through my ex’s latest tagged photos surely can’t be healthy. I even go digging through status updates. The slightest hint of dissension in a new relationship, I want to hear about it. The briefest lapse in sensibility, the smallest sign that she’s still thinking about me…I want to read about it. Not because I genuinely care, but because I’m a nosy bastard who likes to pry. Does that make me a bit of an arsehole? Probably.

Anyway, my Facebook creeping backfired on me quite spectacularly the other day. I’d been sniffing over a former lover’s wall for no reason in particular when the pizza guy turned up. I dropped my laptop in the living room, probably not assuming that my housemates would be in any rush to use it.

By the time I’d come back, I had no reason to be suspicious. The laptop was where I’d found it, but there was a nasty looking smirk on my friend’s face. I’m used to getting Facebook raped. There’s nothing cooler than logging on to your mate’s computer and leaving a dirty great status update for the rest of the ‘Book to laugh at, right? The trouble is, people know to assume that Facebook Rape has taken place.

When my friend had stolen the laptop, he’d done the unthinkable. There was no status update. No dodgy wall posting and not even the slightest hint that anybody else had jacked my page.

So when my ex texted me a few hours later asking why I’d poked her, I could have let the ground swallow me whole. I swear to God, there is nothing worse than subtle Facebook rape.

It’s the kind where the recipient doesn’t even know that it’s happened, but somebody out there…somebody you really don’t want to show weakness to…is left wondering why the hell they’ve been dragged in to your fun and games.

I could just imagine her questions. “Does he want me back?”, “Has he realized how much of an arsehole he was to me?” …”Does he think a single poke is enough to get me back in the sack?”

I’m telling you, people. Subtle Facebook rape is definitely the way to go if you’re looking for what I’d call the beetroot effect. The oh my god, you didn’t.

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