Ladies! Have you ever wondered what is the exact blogular equivalent of wandering into a bar full of finance dudes and being expected to order some sort of pink or green cough-syrup drink ending in -tini whilst they stare at your tits and talk about what big deals they are whilst Entourage plays on a constant silent loop in the background and everyone there is somehow generally starting to remind you of Jeremy Piven and you know no-one there’s ever read even one book that wasn’t authored by Malcolm Gladwell or Tucker Max but they all have The Economist on their coffee tables and there’s one girl who’s really into it with like the snakiest-seeming guy and you KNOW she’s going to complain about how he never called her back because HE IS MADE OF LIZARD and the dudes are all being carefully masculine with their drink orders and they’re telling you they’re total “snobs” about it but none of what they’re ordering is actually any good and everyone’s favorite movie was Inception and the whole thing smells like tanning bed and hair product and peaked-in-the-frat-house despair?
Well: Have you heard of a blog called “Four Hour Work Week?” Because one of our readers has! And has pointed us to a gem of a post, that encapsulates that particular I-haven’t-had-anything-to-drink-and-yet-I-may-still-projectile-vomit-on-you-just-to-make-a-point sort of experience! For you see, the post, as it stands now, is entitled, “How To Become a Model Photographer in Brazil.” An amateur volunteer bikini model photographer, to be precise! But what was it entitled originally, URL-Which-Never-Lies-To-Us?
Aw, dang! Apparently the four women who actually read the site — ladies! I love you, but get back over here! It’s about “lifestyle design” and is called “four hour work week” and is basically one of those get-rich-quick-with-extra-poontang blogs. STOP SHOPPING IN THE DOUCHE AISLE, MY FRIENDS — pointed out that the entire story was creepy and exploitative as hell, seeing as how if it were not entitled “How To Become a Model Photographer In Brazil,” or “WIFE HUNTING,” it could basically be entitled “How To Fool Strange Women Into Stripping In Front Of You By Telling Them You’re A Photographer Although You Have No Resume Or Experience Or Training And Also You’re Not Paying Them; Basically You’re A Sex-Touristing White Guy With Extra Money And A Predictable Creepy Racist ‘Brazilian Girl’ Fetish, But Also A Camera.”
The details of the “interview,” such as it is, are so profoundly stupid as to be unworthy of discussion. (How did he come up with the idea for a “Girls of Brazil” bikini calendar? Well, “I coined the calendar name “Girls of Brazil” and so the adventure began,” quoth the douche in question. Ah, how I would have loved to witness his creative process! Hmmm… girls… in Brazil… I know! I’ll call it “Indigenous Gerbils of the American Pacific Northwest!”) And yup, he ends up married to a lady he met by propositioning her for an unpaid bikini shoot, and yup, we see the bikini shot, and yup, every dude involved in this is so fucking gross. The photographer, Jeremiah Thompson, is fucking gross! The interviewer and “lifestyle design” guru, posing inexplicably in some sort of yoga crouch with a golf club, whose name is Tim Feriss, is fucking gross! Gross gross gross!
But then we get the defense. For Tim Ferisssss notes that, sorry ladies, if you want to see a “female” perspective on how to find yourself a husband — and you do, right, ladies? That is ALL YOU WANT — he’s published one of them, too! And here it is.
Oh, but spoiler? It turns out to be about how CHOICE IS A BAD THING FOR GIRLS. As in, the title is, “Why Are You Single? Perhaps It’s the Choice Effect.” There’s some story about how if you have a lot of jam samples at the supermarket people won’t buy jam but if you have very few jam samples then people are buying jam all day like crazy? Which is analogous to finding someone you want to see naked and/or hear about the quotidian day-to-day thoughts of for roughly forever? Because if you date around, and sleep with folks who seem like a good idea to sleep with at the time, you will never trap er, entice a man into the holy bonds of matrimony within two years tops. Basically, having too many choices wrecks everything. You will end up with no jam! And you really wanted jam, too! But that’s what you get for sticking all those different jams in your mouth, you jam whore! Now no self-respecting jam will have you! NO, NOT EVEN SMUCKERS. So settle; settle now; don’t un-settle or re-settle once you’ve settled; don’t fall prey to choice, in any of its many manifestations, for it will lead to you sleeping with a bunch of attractive folks and LORD KNOWS THAT IS A DISASTER.
Anyway. Are you ready to design your lifestyle? Because I think now we know how to design the SHIT out of ANY GIVEN lifestyle, assuming that you’re heterosexual, and also devoid of any individuality, soul, or vaguely interesting personal qualities. Here’s how it goes, at least for the marriage portions.
HOW TO GET MARRIED, FOR GUYS:
Wander around finding girls you think are attractive, proposition dozens of them with unpaid “modeling” shoots, get them all dolled up and bikini’d down at 2:30 in the fucking morning and did I mention you’re not paying them, get them nekkid in your car, get them into your house, and keep on looking at and recording the vast array of boobies till you find some boobies attached to a girl who inexplicably has not noticed that you are, not merely a douche, not merely the Captain of the U.S.S. Douchebag, but a grand Admiral Douche, commanding an entire Douchefleet, with Douche Battalions ready to follow your every Douchemand. And then get married. Because she fits the “type” you’ve been “dreaming” of marrying ever since you wandered into her country not speaking the language in search of exotic asses to stare at.
HOW TO GET MARRIED, FOR GIRLS:
Pick one dude to fuck for the rest of your life. Keep on fucking him. NO MATTER WHAT.
Also, in these varying columns on how to snag a heterosexual life partner, it’s fun to note the ideal professions of one’s future husband or wife! Because they go,
Tits or job skills; who can choose between them? But luckily, you only have to have one or the other. Therefore, I shall just wander around in my bra looking pliable (and “exotic,” assuming someone thinks unkempt Irish-Scottish-probably-some-German girls constitute an Undiscovered Cuntry — oh, Lord! I’ve never been with someone so miscellaneously Midwestern, my suitor shall pant. My sweet, you are as white as the belly of a large-mouth bass that has floated up to the surface of Lake Erie due to its overwhelming toxicity, he shall continue) until I find a Mr. Darcy for my penniless little Bennet of a self. It’s a sports bra today, gentlemen! Please, restrain all of your many boners!
I know, I know: It’s my lifestyle. It’s just so designed. It gets you all fiery in the pants, you cannot help it. And yet, my bra and I have to track down Justin Fischer, because I kissed him on the playground behind the swing set in kindergarten, and we said we were going to get married, and now I think he might just be my best shot.