The Accidental Sexist

I was just on Facebook and one of those annoying links came up that challenged:

‘If You Know The Meaning Of These 16 Words, You Have A 150+ IQ’

OK, I’ll bite“, I thought to myself.

So I bit and clicked the link.

I got all 16 words correct (naturally) and was heralded a genius (obviously), which was nice.  But to be honest, it was pretty easy…any idiot could have done it.

Then I noticed the website name:

http://www.women.com

Uh oh.

Wait….did this website cause me to have a sexist thought?  It most certainly did.  For the tiniest of nanoseconds, my thought was ‘So, is it easier because it’s aimed at women?

That’s not a good thought to have.  It’s also not a great thought to share on a blog either!

Hmm, maybe my I.Q. isn’t as high as I thought.

I would like to say at this point that I’m not sexist.  If anything, the website was sexist by pandering to its readers, right?

Right?

>crickets<

Maybe this clickbait quiz was designed to have men go through what i’m going through and question their views on the better sex?

(Yes, I’m grovelling for forgiveness here).

But in all seriousness, I ‘m not a sexist guy; women are awesome.1  In fact, now I think about it, all my girlfriends have been female.

Every single one.

My wife’s a woman too.  I checked.

I’ve never considered women to be inferior to men (except for their inability to see the difference between DVD and BluRay picture quality which is SO annoying! Come on….look at the crispness of the image and how clear each pixel is when you….no, no I’m not going to get into this now), so was the website subtly imposing sexism on me?

Was I sexist by proxy?  Was it designed to make us men think about sexism?  Was the quiz actually difficult and I am, in fact, a monumental genius?

Whatever the case, I’m sleeping on the sofa tonight when my wife reads this.2

1 – Except a couple of my ex-girlfriends; they were a fucking nightmare!

2 – Not really.  My wife is not that type of person. She’s amazing! 3

3 – Yep, still grovelling.

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Gymnauseum

It’s been a little over two weeks since the move to Las Vegas from sunny (ha!) Crawley in the UK.  In that time I have compiled notes on a million[1] things I want to write about but I have to resist otherwise i’ll be posting two or three times a day, and that’s a bit too much to deal with; like the Kardashians.

As an update on the important things over here, I secured a job on Tuesday[2] with a small, unassuming multi-million dollar company[3] AND obtained my full 8 year driving licence [license].  I may write separate posts about those, but for now I use those memories to aid in masturbation.

On this post I want to share my observations of the gym here in Las Vegas.

I’ve been to gyms all across the country in the UK and now that i’ve moved to the USA I’ve noticed a difference in the calibre [caliber] of people that go.

In the UK the average person in the gym looks a little something like this:

average man ukwoman workout ukman weights uk

woman weights uk

Which is fair enough, right?

But in the USA, they’re like this:

Sm bodybuildKatrinka Danielson - fit

us rippedJessie Hilgenberg - fit

Or this.

grandma gymweightlifting

Seriously this is a thing here.

It all makes me feel a bit….

how i feel

 

[1] Not literally.  Maybe six; possibly five.

[2] Today is Thursday, not that you care.

[3] Woo hoo!!  Yeah!! (does a little dance)

The DMV was everything I expected it to be….unfortunately.

Yesterday I needed to go to the DMV to begin the process of applying for a driving licence [license].

To all my fellow Brits across the pond, the DMV (Department Of Motor Vehicles) is the American equivalent of the DVLA (Driving and Vehicle Licencing Authority) but with more attitude, sneering and total disregard for anyone and everyone.

We had, in fact, been there the day before at 7:30am which was half an hour before they opened.  However, the queue [line] was already about 80 people deep, so we said ‘fuck it’ and decided to go shopping for some delicious home comforts at the international market.

I’ll write about this another time no doubt.

So yesterday we arrived at the DMV at 7am; a full hour before they opened,  We were still about 40th in the queue [line].  Luckily the sun wasn’t beating down on us making me sweat through my shirt, so that was nice.

It’s amazing watching Americans queue up. Us Brits are renowned for our amazing ability to queue.  If it was an Olympic sport we’d win gold every time, next to moaning about the weather and apologising [apologizing].

The queue was snaking around (what the Americans call) the ‘planters’ and getting quite long.

DMV queue

This is a real satellite photo…honest.

Now, let me ask you a question; where would you join the queue?  I mean, REALLY think about it…where would you stand if you turned up and saw all these pink dots, er, I mean people?

At the end of the queue maybe?

Well, some Americans decided to go down this route…

Dumbfuckery at its finest

Dumbfuckery at its finest

I seriously couldn’t believe the nerve of these people.  They were blatantly attempting to join the queue by giving the snake a second tail.

My wife and I were stood right on that corner, so she politely and with an air of “don’t you fucking dare” pointed out that the back of the line was behind all these increasingly angry faced people.  She may have appeared like she was smiling, but I think a more accurate description would be ‘snarling’.

It amazed me that these twats looked genuinely surprised; like i’d kicked them in the balls without warning.

These people didn’t actually realise what they were doing, which isn’t reassuring when you consider they all have driving licences.

Anyway, once the offices opened we all shuffled in to….well, the same queue, but indoors.  At least it was air conditioned, which was nice.

We got to the desk in no time and was greeted by the clerk who took our details including our phone number (the DMV staff all seem perplexed that we didn’t have a mobile [cell] number and had to take what’s called a ‘home number’).  We were then given each a form to complete and told to take a seat in the waiting room until the last four digits of our phone number was called over the tannoy.  The clerk said it wouldn’t take long as there were only 2 people in front of us.

Great.

So we sat down and completed our forms.  And we sat.

And we sat.

And we sat.

We ignored the dickhead sat next to the ‘please wear headphones’ sign with his phone blaring out YouTube videos.

And we sat.

People came and people went, but we still sat there waiting for our number to be called.

After an hour my ‘smiling’ wife went and rejoined the bastard queue from hell and was told by another desk clerk that our number HAD been called and we missed it.

Er, no we fucking didn’t.

It seems that your number is only ever called out once.  If you miss it you have to rejoin the queue and register it again.

Apparently they also text you to notify you that your number has been called.

No cell phone number, assholes…remember?

Our number must’ve been called in the 4.2 seconds it took to walk from the front desk to the waiting room.

There was no way we could’ve heard it because they don’t have the same tannoy speakers announcing the numbers anywhere else BUT the waiting room; not even in the toilets!

That makes for a nervously quick visit if you’re on your own.

Anyway, our number was FINALLY called half an hour later and we went over to desk 12 and took a seat.

The woman behind the desk – let’s call her Bitchelina – barely looked up at us and said “So what do you want?”

roz blink

Not “How can I help?”, or “What can I do for you?”.  No, she went with “So what do you want?”

My wife explained that she needed to renew her licence, change her surname [last name] to her married name and change her address.  I got halfway through explaining that i needed to apply for a US licence when Bitchelina barked, “Why did they send you to ‘Admin’?”

“I don’t know, we were just told to….”

“You shouldn’t have been sent to ‘admin’.  Why did they send you to me?!”

How the fuck should we know?  Ask the person who sent us; don’t sit there and talk to us like we’d somehow decided it would be funny to come over to your desk and fuck up your day.

Anyway, Bitchelina huffed and puffed about it, moaned openly to her colleagues that we were in the wrong place, stopped processing us on several occasions to socialise with colleagues and generally made it blatantly clear that we were an inconvenience to her.

She was rude, abrupt and only seemed to ask questions that consisted of a maximum of two words.

I had two words for her, and one of them was ‘off’.

(The other was ‘fuck’…in case you were wondering).

Anyway, once I had proven I am a real human being by providing a passport, US visa, proof of address (which still had to be verified by my wife), bank details, birth certificate, blood and urine sample, a cheek swab, the big toe on my left foot and my unborn first child, she thrust the paperwork I needed and grunted in the direction of the testing office.

Before I left I asked her to clarify if the driving portion of the test accepted hand over hand steering, or if it had to be hand to hand (like in the UK).

She didn’t know.

Of course she didn’t.

And that was probably my fault, somehow.

At this point I realised just how true the portrayal of the DMV is in TV and films.  The staff there are truly awful.  It’s where personalities go to die.

Anyway, I went to the testing office, handed over my paperwork and was allocated a machine to sit at for the written part of the driving test.  The machine resembled a cash machine [ATM] complete with touchscreen.

dmv atms

I sat down, pressed the ‘Start’ button and the screen advised there would be 50 questions, of which I had to answer 40 correctly.

No problem; I’d read the Nevada State driving manual and knew all there was about the rules of the road, what the road signs meant, how to navigate the road markings and how the traffic lights [traffic signals] work.

Question 1 – What is skidding?

Oh come on, this is going to be easy!

Question 2 – What do you do at a red light?

This is going to be a walk in the park!

Question 3 – How heavy should a baby be before they can sit facing forward?

Er, what?  Ok, no problem…I can skip it and come back to it.

Question 4 – If you suspect a driver is drunk, what telephone number should you call?

How is that relevant to driving?  I took a guess.  A wrong guess.

Question 5 – If you have an accident, other than the driver, who else should fill out an accident report?

a) A passer by

b) Other passenger(s)

c) The registered owner

Well duh, it’s obviously the other passengers as they would’ve been there at the time of the accident.  Nope, it’s the registered owner.

What??

Did you know that you can also lose your licence if you’re convicted for graffiti?  Nothing to do with vehicles or driving, just the simple act of defacing property with paint.

I didn’t either.

Needless to say, I failed the test.

Bollocks [gosh darn it]

Not only did this mean I felt stupid – considering it had probably been passed by people with an inability to understand the simple act of queuing – but it also meant I had to resit the test.  Imagine my joy when the ‘examiner’ (the woman sat behind the counter scratching her arse [ass] and probably scrolling through her Facebook news feed) told me that I can only do one resit a day.

You mean I have to come back again tomorrow?

Shit.

roz closed

So that evening I read the booklet cover to cover – including the date it was published (July 2014) and the number of staples used (2) – because i’d realised that the written test wasn’t about learning the rules of the road, but testing if you’d actually read the booklet.  If it’s in the booket, they’ll test you on it.

This morning my wife and I went back to the DMV at around 10am, queued up, got snarled at by the desk clerk, gave our telephone number, ran to a seat in case we missed our number being called out, paid the resit fee and went into the testing room to be sat in front of the ATM again.

This time it didn’t ask questions about babies and telephone numbers, naturally.

This time I passed.

Then I was directed to a desk where Bitchelina’s cousin was sat.  She told me I had to wait until the 23rd of September for the driving portion of the test.  That’s a month away!

Then she sternly said “You can come along any day and get yourself on the standby list, but there’s no guarantee you will get a test and you can be sat here all day”

I wanted to make sure this option was in ‘addition to‘ having a scheduled test, rather than ‘instead of‘, so I replied, “Oh, so I CAN have the test earlier than the 23rd September?”

She repeated,  “You can come along any day and get yourself on the standby list, but there’s no guarantee you will get a test and you can be sat here all day”

That’s not really answering my question.

“So it IS possible to attempt a standby test even if I have a scheduled test in September?”

Without flinching she replied,  “You can come along any day and get yourself on the standby list, but there’s no guarantee you will get a test and you can be sat here all day”

2 weeks flashy

Hopefully you’ll get the movie reference, and not photo-sensitive epilepsy.

Each telling of this sentence became more and more insipid; like a piece of fruit gradually decomposing.

strawbaerry rot

Although this particular piece of fruit was bitter to begin with…like a lemon!  Yes, she resembled a rotting lemon.

Hmm, that’s not a sentence I was expecting to write when I began this post.

So that was my first (and technically second) experience of the DMV.  It was a service so far removed from the expected level of customer service you get in the USA.

Maybe they should work on tips like they do in restaurants, then the DMV would be a delightful place to visit.  But until then, they will remain to be a bunch of Demeaning, Monstrous Vaginas.

(See what I did there?)

I will no doubt write about the driving part of my test when it occurs.  It may be on the 23rd of September, or any day when I can get myself on the standby list, but apparently there’s no guarantee I will get a test and I can be sat there all day.

Fed Zeppelin

The supermarket last night was manic, with last minute Christmas shoppers packing their trollies tight like a hungry alcoholic competition winner on a supermarket dash.

I was regrettably in there because we had run out of alcohol in the house and that’s a sin at any time of the year, let alone Christmas.

After negotiating the badly driven trollies and turkey laden imbeciles with no sense of direction or intelligence, I loaded up my trolley and slalomed my way through the festive fuckwits to the checkouts.

After queuing for an eternity behind knuckle draggers and bickering couples, I finally reached the checkout.  I began loading my meagre purchases onto the belt and awaited my “sorry to keep you waiting, would you like some bags?” from the friendly checkout girl.

No, its OK, I’ll just kick my stuff all the way to the car.

Probably not the best approach as these guys were swamped with Chrismassy cretins and their sanity was hanging by a thread.

As I was stood there being thankful that ASDA didn’t sell firearms, I couldn’t help but watch the two women behind me unloading their shopping onto the belt behind mine (and yes, this time there was a divider). They were both rather large ladies, one considerably larger than the other. A lot larger.

I shall call her Zeppelina.

They were placing item after item after item after item onto the checkout which had started creaking under the weight, and I began to wonder if this was their Christmas shop or ‘just the weekly’.

Anyway, after about 5 minutes Zeppelina pulled out an empty chocolate wrapper from their trolley and gave her friend a smile that said, ‘oops, what am I like?’.

A pig?

Zeppelina used this moment to take a breather from the exhaustive nature of what she was doing (as some of those cakes looked quite heavy), and once she’d caught her breath and stopped wheezing she handed the wrapper to her friend and said, “we’ll need to explain that”.

No she won’t.

image

Holy shit

I tend to avoid certain subjects in my blog because amongst all the talk of mindless idiots, insufferable twats, shit, piss and vomit; I wouldn’t want to offend anyone now would I?

One of these ‘off limit’ subjects has been religion.

If you’re particularly religious or easily offended, I suggest not reading any further. There are some opinions in here that may upset you and it’s probably best to just go about your day and maybe pray for me if that makes you feel better.

However, If you’re reading this sentence you’re either not a religious person or you’re lying about it, in which case you’ve broken the 9th commandment and you’re going to hell.

As you can probably tell, I’m not religious man.

Although I do actually respect others’ rights to believe whatever they want; God, Allah, Buddha, The Wizard of Oz, Aslan the lion etc, but what really pisses me off are those narrow minded types who impose their beliefs onto those who aren’t in their club, er I mean their gang, no, their cult….damn it; religion! I mean their religion!

Sorry, I always get those mixed up.

There are those out there who take their faith to unnecessary levels. These are the deluded fools who stand outside abortion clinics with rosary beads, pictures of sad children and babies, handing out cards to any women walking in, walking by or simply owning a vagina.

I actually see these misguided morons with vacant faced smiles every day between the tube station and the office and every day I’m tempted to say something especially when I see them attempt to ‘help’ a woman walking into the clinic, or some young girl with her mother. Is this right? Is this holy and just?

Is it fuck.

There are a lot of reasons why a woman would choose to terminate a pregnancy; maybe the condom broke, maybe the baby isn’t growing properly and won’t survive full term, maybe she’s too young or not ready. And what if she’s a rape victim? Sorry to be so blunt, but what if?

One thing is for certain, it’s not an easy decision to make and it takes a lot of courage to walk into a clinic like that. It’s likely to be a very emotional time, so the last thing they need is judgement from a wool wearing twat who smells of mothballs and biscuits.

It’s simply not fair.

I’m not a cruel person, but I’d love to walk up to one of these woollen wankers whilst holding an open box full of knitting needles and ask, “Where do you want these medical supplies?”

This is just to see their reaction. I want to see if they lose their (holy) shit!

In fact, thinking about it, let’s look at it from another angle. We don’t see fashionably dressed people stood outside maternity clinics with pictures of happy and childfree couples, complimentary cigarettes and beer and handing out free coat hangers to every pregnant woman going in. So why is this somehow ok?

Although I will say they are stood out there every day. In the morning when I walk to the office, there they are. When I walk to the station in the evening, there they are. They’re doing what they feel is right. They believe they are fighting the good fight and they will never back down or give up.

Except today.

Today was raining.

holyshit

Hot to trots

Summer is great in London, mostly because the female of the species tend to wear a lot less. I realise how typically male that last sentence is, but it’s true. I love the female form.

Don’t get me wrong, I have a girlfriend and there isn’t a woman who compares, but it doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate a transparent dress or hotpants here and there. Well, unless it’s on a 300lb munter…..or a man.

I always think it’s a shame that our nation’s weather causes the fairer sex to cover themselves up, usually in multiple layers for a large part of the year.

But in summer it’s a different story and it’s interesting to see the assortment of clothing that emerges from the underused summer wardrobes of England.

As I walked from the station to the office this morning I noticed a girl coming the other way. She was in heels, had toned legs, a short skirt that wasn’t slutty but still drew stares, a very fitted shirt with enough open buttons for ample cleavage, flawless make-up, sumptuous long brown hair and sunglasses…all wrapped up in a little wiggle that made it impossible not to watch her, whether you’re male or female.

In short, she was really quite cute.

I could see she was talking on her phone as she had her head cocked sideways; wedging it between her ear and her shoulder. She was fumbling with something in her hands.

As she got closer I saw that it was a packet of Imodium.

Fail

girl-on-toilet-m

Women’s clothing sucks

Whilst shopping in Oxford Street today for a jacket, I walked into a clothes store that DIDN’T send the men to another floor.

No, this store actually put us men first. Can you believe it?

My favourite part of the store was the sign saying the women’s department was downstairs.

Cunningly amusing play on words, or unbelievably funny fuck up?

You decide.

image