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xmag.com : October 2000 : Girl Trouble

Girl Trouble - a monthly column by Rex Breathes

Whew. Made it. I’m back after flinging myself (off a cliff) into the Emotional Olympics. And I survived, barely, by the skin of a tired metaphor. Because these Emotional Olympics aren’t satellite-tape-delayed. They’re live. And they don’t take American Express (tm), or any of your whining. The finest emotional athletes from around the globe gathered to pay tribute to how far some men will go in pursuit of the Gold, otherwise known as her pussy. Of course, these games are completely dominated by the women, but without men’s willingness to compete, they would never take place.
The following is a recap of just a few of these late summer games. Some of the events I was urged to enter; others I merely watched in horror. So, light the torch for the one you long for, and let the games begin.

Javelin: Distance is all that counts in this event, measuring how far you can hurl an insult from a standing position with one spear-like sentence. Unfortunately, all writers are barred from this event, as well as other professional insult artists: comedians, dominatrixes, lawyers and sadistic school teachers. Remember, the Emotional Olympics are about amateur competition, whatever that is. Sigh. And it was the only event I had any shot at.

Clean and Jerk: The idea here is speed and proficiency, as the lingerie models compete in how fast they can clean out the man’s wallet, make him jerk off, and leave.

400 Meter High Hurdles: In this event, a “high maintenance” woman throws up a hurdle every ten seconds that you must clear in order to reach the finish line of desired intimacy. Speed and resiliency (but rarely accuracy) in overcoming her demands for attention, reassurance, time alone, time together, time out, time to fuck someone else, etc, are necessary to win the Gold Medal: one lousy moment in her arms.

Discus: Which is really discuss, as in how far can you throw yourself into discus(sing) the relationship and all the problems she’s having with you. Only men who have seriously worked out with freaky-deaky, finicky, panicky, paranoid, delusional, narcissistic women have the emotional muscle to enter this event and not wear down. If you can bench press two borderlines and half a bulimic, you may actually make the finals.

Pole Vault: As in pole vaulting over mouse turds. You break a date with her (because you had to actually live your life and go to work). Therefore, are you willing to clear 17, 18 even 19 hours of discussing the relationship as a result of this gross trespass against her? Or make the most fantastic, only-in-the-movies romantic gesture? For example: rent a ferris wheel at a carnival in Kansas for one night, flying her in and out on a private jet with a mariachi band playing love ballads on the way there, and a one-on-one interview with her favorite celebrity, in-flight, on the way back. Only those willing to vault over the moon, if necessary, can ever hope to take home the Gold: she relaxes around you and doesn’t complain for about two and a half days.

400 meter individual medley: In this event, she gets to unveil her arsenal and use four different strokes, each one determined to bring you to your babbling knees in the shortest time. For example, in the butterfly, she cuts you so quick and deep, you don’t even know you’re bleeding till after the event. At the very least, butterfly bandages are required to close the emotional wound. In the freestyle, she comes at you with a wild potpourri of everything she’s got: “I saw you look at her... what did you mean by my shoes are ‘interesting’... we’re just not getting along... how long are you going to do that...” In the backstroke, she goes back over every little fucking thing you’ve said or done wrong dating back to the womb (your mother’s, not her’s). Finally, in the breaststroke, she taunts you and teases you with the prospect of stroking her breast, or some other portion of her anatomy, until you give in to whatever she wants.

Four by 400 relay: In this event you must drive her to four completely different places, or accomplish four unrelated tasks, where at each juncture there will be about 400 things to do. You will be expected to assist in every conceivable way, thus facilitating the passing of the baton to the next leg of her itinerary. Speed, patience, credit cards, cell phones and a knowledge of everything under the sun are prerequisite for any man wishing to reach the finals: you’re home in one piece and you get about five minutes of peace. Frequently, the male runner is seen collapsing across the finish line after the last leg in this event, having taken himself beyond human endurance in competition with other teams who have: secured a bank loan, fixed her vehicle, driven to several different stores buying her specialty foods, supplements and “treats” at the best sale price, and installed a new shower head (that pulsates) all in 2 hours, 36 minutes.

Decathlon: In this grueling event, she’ll give you ten completely unrelated reasons why “we’re not getting along and we need to break up.” As each reason is overcome, she’ll throw another one at you out of nowhere that’s even more ridiculous and demanding. Men who compete in this event are rightly considered the “world’s greatest emotional athletes,” and usually wind up on cereal boxes, living by themselves in a Chicago tenement, unable to compete (date) ever again. One moment of fantastic glory for a lifetime of withdrawal into obscurity... it’s sad, but it sure sells a lot of cereal for about six months after the decathlete is crowned.

Marathon: The distance from the first kiss to the last, or the last to the first. You decide. It’s pain, torture, hell and monumental endurance either way, baby.

 

 

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