The Smelly Brit, The MHR's, and Just When You Think I Can't Get Any Shallower, I Manage to Drain Another Inch Out of the Baby Pool

Okay. OKAY.

I just sat down for a little while and re-read some of the old blog and realized that I have got to step up my game here.

Out of that cliche and anguish I somehow managed to do some damn fine writing.

To which I add: Dear Mom and Dad, thanks for the happy childhood. Now I'll never be a great writer.

What you already know is that I've been at the Soul Destroying Job now since May.

What I haven't gotten around to mentioning was that at about the same time, I put myself on a 3-month sexual hiatus. 90 Days of Sexual Sobriety, if you will. Since it seemed like sex was doing nothing but getting me into trouble, I sat back and said, uh-oh, let's take a breather here. And after the nuclear explosion of EVG and the Tall Stinky Brit (he only lasted one week, folks, but that was long enough apparently, that my friends STILL shake their heads and say, "WHAT were you thinking?") I thought I should avoid Naked Playtime with ANYone for awhile.

The Tall Stinky Brit, besides being a generally gross human being, completely sold me down the river to the EVG, which ended THAT but good. It was like napalming 2nd Avenue -- I had to stay away from the EV for a while, EVG even stayed away for awhile from what I hear.

Now, the encapsulated description of the Tall Stinky Brit, with the caveat that I am quite possibly the most shallow female on the planet (with no good reason, but I am. Who the hell doesn't love a pretty face?). I've realized that I have what I call "The MHR's." There are Four of Them.

Everyone has their taste in the opposite sex, right? You might say I have a "type." We've been over this. Galootiness turns me on. Don't be in touch with your feminine side, I'd rather you were in touch with your masculine side, blah blah blah.

What my taste in men has boiled down to is this: The MHR's.

MHR #1: The Minimum Height Requirement. Conditioning, conditioning, conditioning, people. That's all it is. If you're a little girl and your daddy is 6'3" - then the first love of your life was really tall. I am not the smallest girl on the planet. I'm sort of medium-sized leaning more toward zaftig. Look taller than I am. And frankly, I like guys who make me feel petite.

MHR #2: The Minimum Hair Requirement. Don't say I didn't warn you about shallow. I TOLD you people. If you're bald, you better be Yul Brynner bald. Shaved bald. None of this Franciscan Monk bald with that shitty little tonsure around your head. Take it all off if you've started to lose it. Be Bold! Be Bald! With this one warning before you do it: Are you sure you don't have a weird shaped skull?

MHR #3: The Minimum Hygiene Requirement. Now. (WARNING! Extremely mean yet gleefully posted potshots at the Smelly Brit ahead! Oh come on, don't tell me to be nice, I've been waiting MONTHS to do this.) Acquire a nailbrush and know how to use it. Better yet, if you have those weird Count Dracula fingernails that can even accumulate crustiness, how about making a stop in Duane Reade and acquiring a nail clipper? Don't put your feet on my fucking walls, you insanely bad guest! Is that how they do it in Jolly Old England? Don't forage through my refrigerator while I am asleep. Don't flick boogers onto my walls. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I was cleaning and saw ... something ... on my wall. I approached cautiously and as I got closer, I saw that, oh my god, there were BOOGERS on my wall. Right next to where he had put his feet, by the way. And finally, double-check after you flush. Because nothing will make a girl want you more than that floater you left behind. I know, folks, you can't believe it was all in a week, right? (Well there was also the "He put the touch on me for twenty bucks" incident which was soooooo sexy, let me tell you. Not hygiene-related, but just part of the overall unsavoriness of the guy.)

MHR #4: The Minimum Handsomeness Requirement. It's just a taste thing. I know.

So, Smelly Brit, met ONE of the MHR's (Height, the one you just don't have any control over), and frankly, ya gotta give me two, at the least, a 50% hit rate, to even stand a chance.

The Moral of the Story is This:

Most of the time, NOTHING AT ALL is better than just anything.