The average female claims to be disgusted by bad boys and dreams of settling down with a nice guy. She either doesn’t know what she wants, or she’s fighting her urges. Of course, my impression offends certain women–the ones in denial. Look, it’s fine. Bad boys need love too, and they act that way precisely because hot women seem drawn to their antics. *sigh* Don’t assume that bad boys are stupid, and nice guys are smart. Untrue. Bad boys are street smart, as evidenced by them having a bevy of buxom beauties willing to take hot loads to the face. (Offended yet?) What we need is a test to determine what sort of woman you are–the kind, yet self-assured type who would never allow herself to be demeaned, or the slap-my-ass-and-pee-on-me-if-you-like type. (Got ya, didn’t I?)
Answer the following questions about each scenario with a number from one to four as follows:
- This gets me wetter than a sea sponge during monsoon season.
- There’s definitely some v-juice in me drawers (said with a British accent, please).
- Yes, I’m a bit misty, but certainly insufficiently prepared for penetration.
- Dry as a pile of salt in the Sahara.
Bad Boy Alex is driving you in his BMW with the top down, even though it’s freezing out, to Carl’s Jr. for your date. Nice Guy Nick cuts him off in his Prius. At the next light, Alex puts his car in park, gets out (even though you asked him not to), stands in front of Nice Guy Nick’s Prius and head butts the hood. Then he returns to the car, bleeding slightly from his shaven head.
While having sex, Bad Boy Brock says, “You like that, don’t you? You’re a nasty little fuck pig. You don’t even deserve my massive meat. Beg for it like a baby bird.”
You’re watching the movie, The Descendants (George Clooney). It’s the scene where George says his final goodbye to his dying wife. As you dab your eyes, Bad Boy Chris says, “Jesus Christ, it’s a fucking movie. He should have suffocated her long ago.” Then he farts and tells you to make him a sandwich.
At your company Christmas Party, your boss drags you out to the dance floor while your boyfriend, Bad Boy Dean orders shots from the hot babe bartender. (He slides her his number … but, you don’t know that. The jury shall disregard.) He notices you two dancing. Bad Boy Dean drinks both shots, walks out to the dance floor, taps your boss on the shoulder, asks to cut in, and then slaps your boss on the back of his head, knocking his hairpiece crooked.
While at the local pub, you notice your boyfriend, Bad Boy Eric, laughing and flirting with some bimbo (your words, not mine). He returns, doesn’t mention her, and asks, “Where the fuck’s my beer?” When you ask him about the hosebag (the woman, not the beer), he responds, “That’s just a silly cunt I used to bang. She sucks in bed. Baby, I’d so glad I found you, and so is my happy cock.”
OK, tally your scores. Anything under ten, and you need therapy, a cry pillow, and a nice box of wet-naps. Ten to twenty, and there’s some hope for you–perhaps you’ll find love, after all, three months at a time. Twenty to thirty and you should start a blog, and consider applying for that management position. Over thirty and you, my love, are destined for long-term happiness, not brought on by prescription drugs.
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