A Word on Girlfights
I’ve mentioned before how I think women who fight should be made to hand in their vaginas at the nearest police station. There is nothing less classy than women coming to blows. It’s vulgar, cringeworthy and really not in our nature. Sure, we bitch, moan, gossip, stab each other in the back, but throw punches? It should never come to that.
Ladies, if you conduct yourself like a lady, you will never have cause to be in a fight. Trust me, I know, I’ve never been in one. Lord knows, there have been times where I would have liked nothing more than to slap a bitch to next tuesday, but I will never stoop that low.
A few years ago, I went to a club in London with a friend of a friend. It was the first (and last) time I went out with her. Like most clubs in London, it was full of snooty people who seemed to only leave the house to give evil eyes to every passerby.
Things started off OK. We got there, did a lap and shook our funky stuff (but not too hard, because the evil eye givers evil eyes will roll right back in their heads and they faint if they see someone having too much fun). Then a girl came in and my friend- once-removed stopped in her tracks and said the fateful words: ‘I hate that bitch!’ It was a spontaneous and rather confusing outburst. I didn’t think much of it, but as the night progressed, my friend of a friend’s mood completely changed and she began stalking the girl around the club. I was ignoring this for the most part until, without warning, my girl jumped on her prey and before I knew it, weaves and fists were flying everywhere.
I reluctantly leapt in there to drag my girl out (I did not want to be associated with that hot mess in any way, shape or form). Oddly, for a girl who weighs roughly 95 pounds, it took me and two bouncers to drag her out of her ready made mosh pit of anger. I tried to reason with her. In case you were wondering, the words ‘try to have some class’ have little to no effect on someone midway through a drunken brawl. She raved a bit more about how that bitch had been ‘looking’ at her and dove right back in to the chaos. I stepped back and let the bouncers work their magic. I’ll be damned if I was gonna break a nail over this foolishness. They finally dragged her out kicking and screaming and carried her towards the exit, but not before grabbing me roughly by the arm and escorting me out with her. I was guilty by association apparently.
Since then, I’ve observed what makes girls tick and sends them over the edge, from bitchy comments, to wanting to smash someone’s face in. Apparently, no one is allowed to ‘look’ at anyone. That’s the kicker. The ‘looking’. What, when, how, where – none of this matters – a look, and in some cases, a mere glance, can make some bitches go postal.
Exhibit A – Saturday night, I went out and was waiting for the streetcar. While looking in the direction the streetcar was to come from, a girl walked by with her boyfriend. As she approached me, she said, loud enough for me to hear ‘I’m gonna box her in her mouth. I don’t know what she’s looking at,’ and then promptly kept it moving. I hadn’t looked at this girl, I don’t know why she flattered herself into thinking I had. I was looking for the streetcar and her considerable girth made it pretty hard for her not to be in my line of vision. But you know what – even if I had looked at her, so-the-hell-what?! Would it really impact her day that much that her knee jerk response is the box me in my mouth? I don’t get it. Now, if I had said what I was actually thinking, by all means, then, she probably would have had the right to say something and/or box me in my mouth.
So, random girl on Queen Street, with a bursting-to-get-out violent streak – here’s what was going through my mind in the 0.5 seconds I glanced in the direction of the streetcar and you waddled into my peripheral vision:
I was having an internal dialogue about the wonder of how you managed to pour yourself into a pair of jeans that were clearly two sizes too small for you and then made the questionable choice of pairing it with a skin tight T Shirt that showcased every one of your seven rolls of fat. I gave you a makeover in my mind that would have done wonders for you, trust me. And I was feeling sorry for you because while you were getting ready to box me in my mouth, your boyfriend couldn’t take his eyes off my legs.
Now that you know my thoughts, that 0.5 second glance doesn’t seem so bad, does it? Perhaps next time, you could keep your violent thoughts to yourself too.