Another coworker of mine is getting married, this time it’s a woman with cerebral palsy.  Very nice person too, and when she talked about her fiance, she indicated that he had a similar disability as well.   She showed us all her lovely new ring.

“Wow, that’s probably about as close as I’ll ever get to an actual real diamond,” I said.

“See Linc?  You never know.”

“Unfortunately, I have found that I am the exception to every rule, no matter what that rule is.”

Indeed, it seems lately that every time I look around, I’m always seeing somebody being paired up with their own.  If I see a Chinese girl, she’s holding hands with a Chinese guy.  If I see a black guy, he’s holding hands with a black girl.  Now here’s someone with a disability who is getting hitched to someone else with a disability.  How in a horse’s wide load are these people finding each other?

For my part, all I can seem to attract are women who, oddly enough, look like men.   Does that mean I’m really gay and this is God’s way of trying to tell me to own up to it?

Really quite sure that’s not the case here, but frankly, I’m running out of plausible reasons to explain away this anomaly.

Lately though, I’ve been settling on what I call the “My Man Genes Were Pounded to Fossilized Dino Droppings” theory.  This theory extrapolates that I was somehow born with a genetic defect that precludes a particular demographic of women from being able to see me.  Like, at all.  In other words, if I’m at the supermarket, they will run right through my righteous ass with their carts not because they’re being rude, but because they just couldn’t see me.

The more I think about it the more things start to make sense.  If I hold a door for a girl and she walks right on through without acknowledging me or saying thank you, it wasn’t because she was being rude.  Again, she just couldn’t SEE me.  It also explains why when I’m talking to a girl, she’s always looking past me, like I’m not actually there.  Really, is it conceivable that every woman in creation would be that rude?  Doesn’t it make more sense that they were simply unable to physically see me at all?

I think I need to head down to Harvard with this.  This definitely merits a closer look and possibly conducting controlled studies so this phenomenon can be observed in action.  I’m talking fully funded with grants and the whole works, and lots of hot girls to use as test subjects too.

Seriously, it’s for science. 

It’s no secret that I’ve been raging against all things estrogen for the better part of the year now, having given up on the female race as being entirely irredeemable and utterly given over to the cause of evil.

And then someone like Sarah Palin comes along and helps me restore my faith somewhat.  Maybe, just maybe, all is not completely lost.

McCain’s astonishing VP pick (and current governor of Alaska) is gorgeous, articulate, smart, conservative, accomplished, and by all appearances a devout Christian too.  She’s also a member of the NRA.    Oh, and she’s gorgeous as well.  Did I mention she’s gorgeous? 

In short, she’s everything I could have ever wanted in a woman.  Someone who embraces her femininity, but is still a tomboy of sorts who would grind you to ashes if you ever did her dirty.  They don’t call her Barracuda for nothing after all.    More importantly, her attractive appeal is grounded in her intelligence and principled beliefs, demonstrated in one part by in her refusal to abort her child she knew would be born with Down’s syndrome.  Meanwhile others who profess to be Christians have no moral aversion to supporting a candidate like the Obamanation, who stops just short of endorsing mass infancitide. 

Being awash in a sea of underwhelming females who spend half their days with their noses buried in Vogue magazines and their heads up Obama’s goomie gumbos, Palin arrives like a breath of fresh air.

Thank you Sarah Palin.  Thank you for helping me believe once again for the impossible, that there may just be another one like you out there, and that maybe someday soon, God will finally bring us together. 

It’s no secret that one of my favorite pastimes is to bash women and their womenly ways on a regular basis, being that I’m an acidic women hating hairy baboon and all.

And yet oddly enough, it only occurred to me recently that most of the people I chat with and consider myself friends with are… women??

So I decided to do some research. I went back and evaluated how many guys and gals touched bases with me over the past year, then cut out those I either hadn’t known long enough or whom I rarely ever spoke with.

As it turns out, over 83% of the people I consider myself friends or good acquaintances with were all WOMEN. The number of women I talk to on a regular basis outnumbered the guys by a ratio of 5 to 1.

Dude, whaaa__?

But I also noticed something else: ALL of the women I knew were married or at least 5 years older than me. In fact, to this day I have yet to make a woman friend who was both single and within the ages of 18-30. Unsurprisingly enough, this also happens to be the same group I reserve all my virulent, bile, acidic hatred for, so much that within the underground women-hating movement I’m widely known under the callsign of KILLBITCH.

I’ve asked around about this, and from what I’ve been told so far, many single, young women are basically stupid-ass creatures who don’t get over themselves until they either hit their thirties, or they get married, or both. And sometimes not even then. Mind you this is women telling me this, but who knows, maybe my misogynism was rubbing off on them.

Anyone else have any theories? Why is it so easy for me to make friends with married or older women, and yet it is a bitch and an ass and a half when they’re single and around my age?

This would be one of them:

Yes, that’s a woman by the way.  I can confirm this because she recently sent me a wink on Match.com.

I was recently asked by an evil woobie what I wanted in a woman, since I seemed to be sending mixed signals regarding the female race (bashing them to death while yearning for one at the same time). Well alllllrighty then.

I’ve split my list here to those traits I oh-so-badly want a girl to have, and those traits that are complete deal-breakers that will send me screaming and running for the hills. I think once you finish reading through the list you’ll begin to see why I’m still single.

Deal Breakers (Any one of the following will automatically result in immediate disqualification. No refunds.)

• She’s ugly.
• Really ugly.
• I mean damned gouge-my-eyes-out ugly.
• She loves to boss people around, including God Himself.
• Has a mouth like a sailor, and regularly drops f-bombs like a New Jersey mob boss. Not. Cool.
• She has tattoos and piercings in places that hasn’t even been categorized by science yet.
• She thinks nothing of wearing flip flops in subzero temperatures with a full on blizzard warning in effect.
• She is an absolute diehard fan of “reality” TV.
• Modesty is a foreign concept to her. She’d be the girl wearing the tube top at a relative’s funeral.
• She is, for lack of a better phrase, a complete moron.
• She gets her news from Glamour and Vogue magazines.
• She lives to play mind games (unfortunately this might rule out all the women on the planet.)
• She doesn’t say thank you when someone holds the door open for her.
• If the devil is the father of lies, she’s the mother of it.
• She has an ego bigger than the Goodyear Blimp.
• Her idea of doing charity work is to cry a lot.
• There’s never a moment when she DOESN’T have PMS.
• She loves being labeled a “bitch” as if it were a badge of honor.

And now with that unpleasantness out of the way, here’s my list of traits that would make me want to love her up, and love her down, and round and round the merry-go round:

• Shares the same Christian beliefs I do, and at least tries to take it seriously. I’m not looking for sainthood here, but simply wearing a t-shirt that says “Jesus is my homeboy” does not constitute being a Christian to me.
• She’s either apolitical or shares the same basic political viewpoints I do. Seriously, if you’re the sort who thinks Europe is superior to us in every conceivable way, then go live there and leave us ignorant hicks alone.
• She’s smart. Really smart. Yes, I’m aware of the fact that a high level of intelligence would mean she wouldn’t come within a 100 miles of yours truly, but I mean smart in every other respect. Common sense could be her middle name too.
• She’s a deep person. Everything about life fascinates her, and she views it all with a kind of eloquent, yet childlike innocence.
• She’s funny in a quirky but harmless kinda way. She adores corny jokes, while dirty ones turn her off.
• She’s humble and gentle, the very embodiment of warmness, softness and snugglies.
• She makes me want to be a better man. Or more accurately, she tries to help me be a better man.
• She has a heart for giving, and her works of charity aren’t merely token gestures, but defines who she is as a person.
• She’s kindhearted, always aware of her surroundings and who might be in distress or pain, ever eager to comfort those in need. And trust me baby, I need it most of all.
• She’s principled, strong and brave.
• She can look sexy and beautiful while still maintaining her modesty.
• She is a hopeless romantic. She is all about poems and art and literature and music and history and spirituality and all those wonderful things that invite deep discussions and long talks by the fireplace.
• She is a health nut, (but not a vegan.) I kinda need this one too, since my idea of eating vegetables is to add more tomato sauce to the crust when making pizza.

Welp’, that’s it in a nutshell. Soooo…. does she exist? Or should I be looking into getting myself medically castrated and joining the nearest monastery?

It couldn’t be avoided any longer.

After a few months of weaving and dodging, I was finally cornered and sent to attend a mandatory day long seminar on… diversity training.

8 hours of learning to appreciate and understand other cultures and ethnic groups. In other words, 8 hours of pure hell.

Honestly, I don’t need to attend a seminar in order to know that calling black people “niggers” might be considered a bad thing (unless you happen to be black yourself of course). However, I was curious to find out whether using hand signals might be acceptable as an alternative to using racial epithets.

“Are hand signals still allowed?”

“What?”

“Aww you know, instead of saying wops, greasers or wetbacks, how ’bout using hand signals instead? That way I can continue to be a flagrant racist without offending anybody, so long as they don’t know the meaning of the signals. It’s win-win!”

Blank stares.

Ok… probably not a good idea to be asking them these kinds of questions. This was gonna be a looooooong day.

Oddly enough, the seminar was being held in the very same building where I worked my first full time job over 7 years ago. I was going full circle in a way. Not that I gave a flying leap, as I continued to brainstorm ways to get out of this jam. There was no way, no how, not in a million years that I was going to spend 8 long hours in a small room being run by circus freaks…

“Hi Linc!”

I turned and saw Flora, one of my coworkers who was also attending the same seminar. Now out of uniform, she looked radiant in casual clothes and tanned skin that positively glowed in the bright sunlight. Her jet black hair danced in the wind as she greeted me.

“Oh…uh hey Flora! Wow, I barely recognized you there. You look h–, uh nice today.”

Maybe this won’t be such a bad day after all.

We went inside and took our seats. A black guy, a Muslim and a Jewish lady walked into a bar… uh the room I mean, and the first session of the day began.

We were instructed to stand up every time we were called on, and worse yet, after we would finish introducing ourselves or discussing our backgrounds, everyone else had to applaud.

My turn came and I stood up, not knowing where to direct my eyes, so I looked up at the ceiling.

“Yeah, umm, my name is Lincoln, and umm, yeah, I work for _____ and I’ve been doing it for 7 years.”

*Applause*

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I’m back in kindergarten again,” I thought.

Flora though saved my life. At work she always tended to be a bit shy, so our conversations there had been minimal, but she was pretty talkative now. She had three kids, was married (dammit), but she was pleasant and happy to talk to me. We were constantly doing group sessions and had to pick partners all the time, so we just picked each other and the conversation flowed and ebbed from there, much to my huge surprise. I had been dreading the possibility that I would have to talk to complete strangers and discuss personal things about myself that I’d just as soon not share, but I managed to neatly skirt all of that because of Flora.

At one point she laughed and put her hand on my forearm, her soft fingers smoothing over my hair (I was a somewhat hairy guy, the natural result of having Italian genes). For a few minutes I couldn’t see straight. I was in a goo-goo eyed daze, while the blood cells in my forearm suddenly awakened and began shouting, “Good golly molly, a beautiful woman just touched us!! Rejoice men!!!! It is a new DAY!!!”

Word got out to all the other blood cells in record speed, and pretty soon my whole body began dancing inside. Gees, had it really been THAT long since a gorgeous woman laid a hand on me?

Time also seemed to speed up along with my blood cells, and before I knew it the seminar was over. The group quickly vanished as they raced outside to freedom, but Flora and I took our time, and as we walked towards the elevator, I asked her, “So, do you feel more more enlightened now as a result of today’s session?”

She rolled her eyes. “How about you?”

“Oh, consider me very enlightened here. I’ve especially learned to appreciate all the wonderful things that women in particular can bring into this world.”