Tuesday, October 23, 2012


So I have been asked on occasion what is my "type" of woman, meaning what am I attracted to physically. My standard response has always been that I don't have a type; I just know what I like when I see. That's not really accurate, however. It's just that my "type" is not according to the standard labels us men like to slap on women: petite, average, thick, BBW, and so on. Whether or not a woman is physically "my type" is based on what I like to call "mathematical beauty" (hey, what else would you expect from a nerd?), which I will cover in detail in future posts, but which basically is all about proportions and ratios and curves and such. The particular size of a woman isn't quite as strong a factor in attractiveness to me as are proportions and curves and ratios and shapes.

"But, Angry Nerd," you might say, "why should we believe that you would go out with someone that has some size to them, when the last couple of women we've seen you with were little teeny things? Well, their being petite wasn't what drew me to them; they just had all the right mathematical ratios. Their petite sizes were just a coincidence. Besides, just because you haven't seen me with a larger woman doesn't automatically mean I wouldn't go out with one - or that I haven't already done so (y'all don't have to know all the Angry Nerd's business...)

Still not convinced? All right, all right, I'll confess: I do have one rule/test/restriction when it comes to women of size. I call it "The Fingertips Rule". It states as follows: "If I hug a woman and I can't touch my fingertips on the other side of her, then she's too much woman for me." Simple, right? What? You think that's shallow? Aw, c'mon, a man's gotta know his limitations! I mean, if she's big enough that I can't touch my fingertips on the back side of her when we hug, then how we gonna...er...never mind...

I mean, I know that today's big girls can be beautiful, confident, fun, sassy, and great to be around; I get that. And surely, there are plenty of brothas lined up to chase/date/hookup with said big girls. And as I said, I am not opposed to this idea; I would (and have) done so myself (dammit, I said y'all weren't supposed to know all my business!). But - and this is a BIG but (no pun intended) - when it comes to women, I'm like an amusement park: your circumference has to be less than my reach in order to enjoy this ride...

Alright, so that's the basics on my "type". Mock me if you must, but hey, I'm really not that hard to please, certainly not as bad as guys who isolate particular body parts  as a woman as a means of determining whether she is attractive (and I won't even get into the picky ass nonsense women use as criteria for determining attractiveness in a man). I may analyze how and why I find a woman attractive more than most (surprise, surprise), but in the end, as I said, I don't believe I'm hard to please...

Now come over, big girl, and give me a hug...

Monday, October 8, 2012

Stanky Legg

So I boarded the #15 bus downtown after work to head home, and found a seat next to this rather sullen looking young lady, who as I sat down promptly shifted slightly away from and leaned up against the window. Typical kind of response from people who think they're supposed to have two seats to themselves. So we're riding along for a little bit, and all of sudden I feel this warmth along my right leg and hip. What the hell is that? I thought, and in very short order I got my answer as I gagged from a particularly noxious stench.

Oh HELL no, I know this wench did not  just FART on me!!!

But fart on me she had, and the odor circulated quickly through that immediate area, causing riders to comment - loudly - about the smell. Folk started turning towards the direction of the funk to locate its source, which meant they were now looking in my direction.

Oh no oh no oh no, I am NOT the one! Direct your attention to the dainty little thing sitting next to me. I looked squarely at lil Miss funk bottom, who was conveniently looking out the little pretending not to feel all those eyes pointed that way...Dammit, own up to your stank! Embrace the funk! If somebody try to blame me for that stink bomb, it's gon' be some consequences and repercussions up in here!

Soon enough, the funk dissipated and everybody calmed. Lil Miss Funkbottom stopped pretending to be fascinated by whatever was outside, and was now sitting straight up and down. But then at some point, she started leaning forward and then...

Arrrrrgh, this chick done farted  AGAIN!!!

I looked over at her like with an expression I can't even visualize.  Seriously? What the hell did you eat today? Only this time she looked back and said, "Excuse me", in a voice and expression so pitiful that I couldn't even be mad at her anymore. Po' lil stink stink, you just having a rough time, huh? Well that's all right, at least you pointed your ass away from me this time...

Thankfully, by this time we were approaching my stop. I got up and did the Stanky Legg all the way off the bus...

Friday, October 5, 2012


Hi, I am the Angry Nerd, and I am a life long fan of the Baltimore Orioles (hi, Angry Nerd). My dear, departed Grandmother, Ethel Rae Keel, was responsible for getting me hooked on this 50 year addiction. From the time I was in diapers, I was going to the old Memorial Stadium with Grandma watching the O's. I spent my childhood summers in the left field bleachers as a Junior Oriole, got to see playoff and World Series games, and the closing game of the old stadium as well as the opening of Camden Yards. Everyone who knew my brother or me knew of our Orioles addiction, and if they knew us from our childhood days, they knew Grandma Keel was at the root of it. And while I love me some Ravens, and cried when the old Baltimore Bullets moved out of the truly crappy (even in the '70s) Civic Center and moved to Landover to become the Washington Bullets (and now the Wizards), nothing has ever quite compared to 'Dem O's in terms of my fandom.

Well, after many years of knowing nothing but success from my favorite team, the last couple of decades have been pretty rough on O's fans. Since our last World Series Title in 1983, we've only made the playoffs twice, in 1996 and '97, with heartbreak and controversy (Jeffrey Maier got an ass whooping coming if I ever meet him...I kid...maybe...). Since then - nothing but embarassment. I tell ya, it's got rough standing up for this team. I fought the good fight defending them and trying to project some optimism, but it ain't been easy to do in this millennium...
Until this year, that is! The Orioles, against all odds, and defying all logic, are in the  playoffs! As I do at the beginning of every year, I came into the start of the season with plenty of optimism/blind hope that this would be the year the boys got it together and turned things around, but who saw this coming? 93 wins, coming right down to the wire for the division title against the hated Yankees, still earning a Wild Card spot? UN-friggin'- BELIEVEABLE!

All the years of disappointment, all the getting mad at people who ridiculed the team, all the arguments even this season every time fans were ready to jump ship when the team hit a slump - all that is behind me now, as I anxiously await the one game, win or go home playoff against the dangerous but slumping Texas Rangers!

So to Buck Showalter, thank you for molding this group of young men and steering the ship to a playoff route. If you're not manager of the year, something's wrong. To Dan Duquette, thanks for not paying attention to some of our fans who ridiculed your hiring and some of your moves, and instead got players in here when we needed them. To Adam Jones, Matt Wieters, J.J. Hardy, Jim Johnson, thanks for holding it down for us. To Nick Markakis, thanks for solidifying that leadoff spot until fat ass Cap'n Crunch Sabathia broke your thumb. To Manny Machado, welcome young man. To Wei-Yin Chen, welcome to America. To Mark Reynolds and Chris Davis, keep hitting those bombs.

To all you guys that got picked up off the scrap heap and had some of thinking, "here we go again, picking up a bunch of nobodies and has-beens", thanks for proving us wrong. To Jim Thome, hopefully you'll finally get that World Series ring on the way to the Hall of Fame. To Robert Andino and Pedro Strop and Nate McLouth, thanks for that spirit and energy.

To all the know it alls that said it couldn't be done,  well look at us now! To Bobby Valentine, who turned us down before we hired Buck, and who called us lucky this season, good luck finding another job...

To everyone in the Orioles family (yes, even you, Peter Angelos), congratulations and a big THANK  YOU for such a fantastic season! No matter what happens from this point, I think it's safe to say that you all far exceeded the expectations of even the hopeful fan! No go out and beat Texas so we can take on those Yankees!

 To my fellow die hard O's fans, who have stuck it through 14 years of losing, and seen our once proud franchise become a laughingstock of the baseball world, well WE'RE BAAAAACK!
And finally, thanks to Grandma Keel for instilling that love of baseball in my brother and me. No doubt we would have become fans anyway, but you were one who got the ball rolling. I only wish you were still here. You would have LOVED this team!

You're a Nice Guy...

For many men, these are four dreaded words to hear. "You're a nice guy." We hate those words because a)they are being spoken by a woman we are interested in, and b)because the word following those four words is always BUT, as in "You're a nice guy, BUT":
  • I already have a man
  • My ex is talking about getting back together
  • I'm not looking for a relationship right now
  • I met this guy this past weekend, and I think I'm gonna check him out
  • You're not my type
  • I'm probably not really your type
  • I'm trying to focus on [work, school, family]
  • I'm a lesbian
  • You're just too [insert negative adjective here] for me
  • [So much hysterical laughter at the thought of her being with you that she never gives a reason why]
  • [Eye rolling, teeth sucking, and/or other assorted non-verbal signs indicating her insult at you even thinking you had a shot, and Chile, PLEASE, do I REALLY have to explain why?]

For these nice guy-phobic ladies, us nice guys really only serve three purposes: to buy/give them stuff, to do stuff for them, and to provide shoulders to cry on when the bad boys who command their attention and who they lust after for every other need inevitably treat them like crap and break their hearts. Now the smarter/savvier/slicker of these women will let you down nicely, and try to pump up your egos afterwards, because for them, they're about maximizing their resources and income, and they're not going to jeopardize losing the potential for a source of the same by stomping on a nice guy's emotions any more than they have to. So as a result they will follow up their reasons why THEY don't want you by telling you how great a guy you are and listing the good qualities that some OTHER woman would want. This buttering up has the intention of preventing any alienating the nice guy, thereby keeping him on ice until she needs to use him again (the meaner girls, on the other hand, are not the least bit concerned with sparing a nice guy's feelings because a)she figures she's hot enough that no matter how crappy she treats him, he will still come running when she snaps her fingers for her to do something for her, and b)if he won't come back, there will be plenty of other nice guys around to be used).

So, nice guys, let's translate the typical let down:

Statement                                                   Translation
You're a really nice guy................................Brace yourself...
but..............................................................There's no f-ing way I'm going to be your lady
[reason/excuse/explanation].........................And here's my maybe true, maybe bullshit reasons why
You're a really great guy.............................Hold onto your wallet, here comes a set up
And plenty of women.................................(Women besides me, of course, hahaha)
would be lucky to have you........................Of course, those women would be much less
                                                                    awesome than me, and I'm betting I can always
                                                                    distract your attention from  them long enough to
                                                                    get what I want from you when I want it...

Maybe I should just get myself a "Wanda". What's a Wanda, you ask? Well, remember the show "In Living Color" from the early 1990's? Wanda was a the hilariously ugly woman played by Jamie Foxx:

She was always chasing around poor Tommy Davison's character, and no matter what excuse he gave for trying to get the hell away from Wanda, she always had the same line: "I got you", after which she would pull out whatever it was Tommy said he was looking for...
I got you...damn, I can't even imagine how that would feel to have a woman say those words. I got you...not "gimme", not "I want, I need", but I got you. Hmmm, maybe I need to adjust my sights a little bit...
Then again, if Wanda ever tells me, "You're a nice guy, but...", then I'm REALLY in trouble...

Thursday, October 4, 2012

Workplace Drama - "Know Your Environment"

So whenever there's a conference at the job, they cater in a big lunch, and whatever's left over someone will bring to the cafeteria for a general grab fest. Today they were bringing in taco fixins and shells just as I was about to get my lunch out of the fridge. Screw this sandwich, I'm gonna make me a couple of tacos. Ham and cheese can wait til tomorrow!

Meh...let's just say the tacos didn't go over too well with my insides. ¡Ay, caramba! It wasn't long before I was hustling to the men's room for a round of projectile pooping. Unfortunately, I was in too much of a hurry to take note of one tiny detail: the toilet paper situation. ¡Ay, caramba!

When I was finished and reached for the TP, I saw that dreaded sight we all have seen at least once in our lives: a couple of squares of paper glued to the cardboard that you can't do a damned thing with...Now what? There's usually a spare roll in the stall for changeovers; no such luck this time. I looked under the stall to see if anyone was occupying it. Empty. And I hadn't recalled hearing anyone come in above all the grunting and splashing. Okay, I can make it to the next stall before anyone comes in, right?

Well, almost...

I was hopping my poopy ass - pants around my ankles - out of the stall I was in and was almost safely into the neighboring stall when I heard the door open!  ¡Ay, caramba!  I was only a hop or two from being safely into the next stall, but I panicked when I heard the door, tried to rush that last hop or two, stumbled forward, just barely manged to catch myself before cracking my skull open on the toilet seat (now wouldn't that have been one hell of a story for an EMT and/or coroner to tell: "Ah yes, we have a Black male, 50 years old, face down, rear end - unwiped - up, in the men's room toilet at his place of employment"), rushed to right myself and slam the stall door closed, and crumpled in a heap onto the toilet seat. Dear Lord, please let me not have accidentally flung any doo doo from my butt somewhere while stumbling and bumbling around this bathroom stall. Amen.

I sat there motionless, other than the heaving of my chest from trying to catch my breath until whoever it was that had come in was finished and left the bathroom (and doggone it, whoever it was never said a thing, didn't ask if was all right, nothing. I could've busted my head open on the toilet and been laying there bleeding into the bowl with my ass all exposed and shitty, and this fool would have not cared one bit. JERK.), and then finally got myself together and cleaned myself up.

Bathroom trips are not supposed to be a damned adventure...

It must be COLD in here...

So a few years ago, I was out doing some shopping while talking on the phone with a female (platonic) friend. Somehow or another I ended up wandering into the women's clothing section of the department store I was (probably following behind some outrageous booty in a pair of ultra-tight jeans and not paying attention to where they would lead me). Once I finally figured out where I was, I looked around to get my bearings so I could get out of there, and noticed something very interesting (to me, anyway), which lead to the following exchange with my friend:

Me: You know, these female mannequins have some slammin' bodies! You don't see many real live women with bodies like these..."

(long pause)

Her: You need to find yourself a woman...
Me: (bows my head in embarrassment)


Fast forward to a few months ago. I was walking into my favorite Baltimoron mall, Mondawmin Mall, near the entrance of the Forever 21 women's clothing store, and as my eyes followed the parade of scantily clad ladies parading in and out of the store, they caught a glimpse of something that seemed a little odd, but I shrugged it off and kept it moving. Later that day, I was in Target and saw the same thing, and then again as I walked past another store and looked through the window. What the heck is up with this?

After that, any time I was in a mall or downtown, it seemed like this same sight, this same phenomenon just kept showing up, even when I wasn't looking for it. The more I saw it, the more baffled I became by it. There seemed to be no reason for their increasing appearance, yet there they were in full view all over the place, standing tall and proud. And after a certain point, I could nothing but wonder in amazement, and ask myself:

Why do female mannequins have nipples?

And I'm not talking about just any old, run of the mill nipples here, either; I'm talking about some serious headlights with the high beam flashing, poke out your eyes, hollow point bullets! Wow, these poor mannequins must really be freezing! Or maybe it's just, as my friend E said with his typical smartassedness (a trait which I admire, given that I am an incurable smartass myself), that they are really excited to see me (which would, sadly, make them different from the overwhelming majority of the living and breathing female population)...

So what's the deal with all the nippleage (nipplitude? nippleocity?)? I tried to find an answer on this, but no one really seems to know for sure. Is it to create the impressions to women that wearing this blouse or sweater is exciting, even arousing? That was one theory I saw floated about, but really does the average woman want to walk around in public this visibly aroused (not I would complain about it, but still...)? The other theory I saw was that all these gigantic (literally) displays of polystyrene/fiberglass/wooden nipples would catch the attention of (and distract) legions of bored husbands and boyfriends trailing their wives around department stores while carrying bags and bags of absolutely nothing for them enough to alleviate their torture.
Well, maybe...for about 30 seconds. Personally, I would have much preferred a live model parading around bra less displaying assorted sheer clothing while babymama spent hours carefully perusing clothing and (especially) bras that she was almost invariably going to end returning the next day (retroactive note to the babymama - not that she would pay it any mind, since she never listened to me when we were together -if you hadn't kept trying to stuff those Double D titties into single D cup - or worse, C cup bras, we might've gotten out of some of this friggin' stores a helluva lot sooner! But I digress...). Then again, if there were live models instead of mannequins, there wouldn't be too many wives and girlfriends dragging their husbands and boyfriends to go shopping with them, now would there be?

Is it me, or do the mannequin's boobs look lopsided?

But who am I to question how some other sex-deprived husband gets his jollies? And if those men getting their jollies helps the store make money, you can bet your sweet ass they don't mind either...

So my research was done without me feeling like I have any more understanding of the polystyrene/fiberglass/wooden nipple madness than I did before. While they never fail to momentarily catch my attention and provide a source of amusement/befuddlement, they certainly aren't nearly as entertaining or attention-grabbing as many of the human females milling about in malls in assorted outrageous clothing - although, strangely enough, no matter how much of their bodies these lady customers put on display, you rarely see them showing off their nipples the way these supposedly life-like dummies do. Hmmmmm...

The moral of the story: I still need to find myself a real live woman, one that hopefully won't be calling the cops on me for playing with her nipples.

(Note: This has NOT happened to me! I have never played with a mannequin's nipples, nor have I even gotten close enough to one to even think about playing with any. I repeat, this has NOT happened to me!)



Tuesday, October 2, 2012

"Jeopardy!" Update

So those of you who are regular watchers of "Jeopardy!" has begun. Those (very few) of you who read this blog and/or know me in real life also know about my audition back in the spring. Well, if you're watching the show looking to see if I'm going to be a contestant on it this season, DON'T. The tapings for this season have come and gone, and I wasn't called, which means you won't be seeing my reach my destiny as mega-multiple, gazillion-dollar "Jeopardy!" champion just yet. I'm on a waiting list, which is good through next season's taping. If I don't call the call by then, I have to go through the testing and interview process all over again. As the audition coordinators hammered home to us, it ain't easy making the show, no matter how smart you (think you) are. Just too few contestant spots in a season for too many aspiring bodies. However, as the coordinators also pointed out, many of the show's big champions were those who didn't make it to the show the first time they auditioned. So there's that.

I'm slightly bummed out I didn't make it to the show this time around (and I will no doubt be even more bummed if the face of someone I recognize from my audition session comes smiling and phrasing answers in the form of questions across my TV screen), but in the end, I just it as a delay in gettin' mine, because I'm gonna try to bankrupt them suckas when I do make that appearance on "Jeopardy!" I've already claimed my winnings (well, not literally, obviously; you won't be seeing me rolling around the streets of Baltimore in a Benz anytime soon)! Hell, I'm so sure I'm going to kick some Jeopardy! ass, I have more than once simultaneously fallen into three of my more prominent tendencies - list making nerdiness, a dandified, preppified dress sense, and putting off shit I should be doing while daydreaming about shit I wish I was doing - by imagining what I would be wearing during each of my seventy-five "Jeopardy!" victories (one more than the great Ken Jennings). Yes, I did put together 75 different outfits in my head, yes I did keep an imaginary running total of winnings for those 75 matches in my head. So what? Shut up about it and stop shaking your heads and laughing...'cause I just know some of y'all gonna be trying be my new best friends when I come flying back to the east coast with all my "Jeopardy!" winnings. So just let me have my daydreams until the real time comes, okay?