“When a man dwells on the objects of sense, he creates an attraction for them; attraction develops into desire, and desire breeds anger.”

Yes, I know that's your girlfriend.


Yes, I was looking.


Yes, I'm sporting a chub.



Look, let's just put it out there, some girls are hot. And I'm a dude.
This all stems from me being "caught" 3 times today. Twice at work, once at the theater. So let me just set up a scene for you.

Act I

Hot chick walks by wearing an incredibly low cut top, and an unreasonably high cut skirt. The legs go on for hours, and the butt wont quit. Oh yeah, the twins are out. Way out.
What's that? How could it be cold out in summer!?
Shiny lip gloss.
Dark ravenous hair.
Deep green eyes, that I can get lost in.
A walk. An amazing walk with confidence.
A tiny little facial piercing (nose, lip, monroe, etc).
You, could be, the mother, of my children.
You, are perfect.
And you, are gonna look a LOT like my right hand in a few hours.


That's not all, walking just 2 steps behind you, the perfect accessory; your DOUCHEBAG
Boyfriend.


Walking behind in a nonchalant manner, with his undeserved swagger.
Chinstrap beard and a goatee with flavor saver.
Beater.
No, that wasn't a suggestion, it's that undershirt your wearing.
In public.
Oh dude, did you know your hat is slightly mal-adjusted?
Did you know your shoes aren't tied, they just the laces tucked in?
Your pants must be soooo heavy, since you have all that extra money.
Because she paid.
Oh, and you must be playing basketball soon, because those are the shorts your wearing.
Just under your ass.

And here I come, dressed like a person of society, with all the best intent towards humanity. Until my periphery is screwed. I get the slightest glance out of the farthermost corner of my eye, and I become a deer in headlights, my head shoots sideways like a nervous squirrel. I drink you in. I am an art admirer. I see you like a Monet painting, slowly analyzing every piece. You can sense my eyes as they move across you like nomads, unhappy settling to a home. You know, and adore this feeling. As you put on this costume, emulating your tv's stars, you think to yourself of all the faces that will want for you. And all the minds that will rape you.

You are the spank bank president. And it gives you goosebumps of joy.

Now, as I am finishing up my third tour, I become self aware again. I even become self-conscious of the fact that I've been drooling all over you just in time to become caught in an equally intense stare. I feel two lasers drilling into my skull.

Oh shit.

Panic.

My eyes find the root of my discomfort. And there he is. Walking 5 feet behind you. His pace is slowing and his stride interrupted. He is a lion. With his primal instinct he wants me to know his presence. Sticks out his chest. Purses his lips. And he stares. Daring me, goading me to look at you once more.

End scene.


ACT II

Ok this is where it all gets tricky. I have two paths. On the one side I can retreat, becoming the beta male you'd expect me to be. I could look at him for a split second and then divert my eyes to avoid that awkward potential that may follow.

Or,

I can be a man. And see you, my angel of now. I can forget about you, and retreat, or confirm that tonight, in my mind, I'll have a friend that I know like the back of my hand. And I already know what I'm going to do. Because I'm me.

I tear my stare from your mongoloid doucher, and return to you. Now your backs facing me. I like this view too. And I dare not look at him, though I know his face is red. You sense he's no longer at your heels and turn. You see him, and then you see me. You know the whole story before anyone. You've read it a million times, and you, although outwardly would like to be disgusted, you are far from it. You love the attention. You love the drama of it all. And for just an iota of a split second, you love me. Or at least what I represent for you. And so in this moment you give me a fleeting half grin to acknowledge your acceptance of my compliment.

Back to the ape. He's seething but tries not to show it, and I pray for a peaceful resolution. Avoiding conflict like cancer, I don;t even look at him, but he makes his halted stride aware. He wanted me to see him angry. So I give it to him, one more glance before I turn and pretend, that somewhere, sometime, somehow, I'd have his girl. That as much as I hate him. And I do. That a girl like that, would know how I warship her. And choose me as her companion.

End scene.

The point is, why the fuck is she dressed like that if she didn;t want the attention?
Why would any self-respecting boyfriend allow that much skin shown, unless he wanted
these little pissing contests? And let me tell you, if I had a hot girl, I'd WANT every, single, pathetic, wow playing doofus, to stare with envy. I;d want them to turn green for me. I'd wish for them to wonder aloud why I am with HER. So dude's get the fuck over yourself. I'm not a creep. I'm not a date-rapist. I just respect that hot, is hot. And girls are the end all, be all
of existence, to guys like me.

And girls, for the love of god. Keep it up.


-Ruckus