Dear Readers, I need to ask you a huge favor. If I ever start sounding like Arthur Kade, please put me down.
I read about him in this month’s Philadelphia Magazine and immediately detested him.
Tatiana wanted to get online and tear this guy apart. I managed to talk her down with a couple glasses of wine and some rational thinking -- after all, isn’t that exactly what this guy wants. More press.
I then thought about it some more and realized that even though this guy lived in my city, and was only a few feet from my house when the article was being written, there was a good chance I would never have to see him. That his existence would have zero effect on my life. It isn’t as if I hang out at the G Lounge or the Spank Bank or any of the other way-cool, exclusive spots this guy hits up. So I would never have to worry about passing by him and hearing him snicker, “she’s a four. She could be a six if she would lose some weight, bleach her hair, get bigger boobs and wear something tighter and lower cut.”
Because you know, if I heard that it would be on like Donkey Kong -- though, when you think about it, if Angelina Jolie isn’t a ten, maybe I should be happy with a four.
But then Theresa read the article and out of boredom googled the son-of-a-motherless-goat. Which is when she learned that he goes to my pool.
And that is when I started to worry. What if that level of douchiness (I know this is not an actual word) is contagious and not something killed by chlorine? Come to think of it, I wonder if the STDs I’m sure he is carrying are killed by chlorine. Can you catch chlamydia from a swimming pool? Man, I should have paid better attention in sixth grade health class.
The thing is, I am totally addicted to my pool. I love lying there, on the white resin chairs, imaging my life is more fabulous than it really is, judging the others around me, all the while baking my skin to a warm, golden brown.
Plus, the day after I have imbibed in maybe a tad too many libations, I find nothing refreshes and renews like a dip in the unheated pool.
So, it looks like I will have to risk catching douchiness (and chlamydia). Fortunately, I am pretty sure penicillin will clear up the clap. I am not sure they have found a cure for DBS (douche bag syndrome).
This is where you come in, Dear Readers. Maybe you won’t want to commit homicide (even though you would be doing the world a great service). At least promise that you will pepper my comments section with such gentle nudges as “umm, honey you are getting a little Artie on us.” I will know that you don’t mean interesting or obscure (that would be “arty”). If that doesn’t work, get tougher. Call me names and point out my grammar errors, question my sexuality. If I still continue to blog about all the amazing times I am having at really exclusive clubs, where everyone knows me, the owners comp me and I have to spend most of my night snapping photogs with guys that I totally could bang, but won’t because they aren’t 10s, well then, just leave. Stop reading me, stop commenting, eventually (fingers crossed) I will fade into oblivion.
Oh, and a word of warning, if you don’t know who Arthur Kade is, and you are going to google him and see what I am talking about -- take my advice, get something to throw up into first. It would be a shame to ruin your keyboard/desk/blouse and skirt.