In light of our tumultous weather that is shaking the building, the fact that I’ve already escaped death twice this month (when lightning hit my plane & during the earthquake that I slept through), and the fact that I am a GIVING, GIVING person, I figured it was only appropriate for me to take you all into consideration in this dark time.
Yes, tornadoes are ravaging around us all and I’m here, unselfishly thinking of y’all. Touching, ain’t it?

I, Aubrey O’Neil Sabala, residing at [none of your damned business, I SAW YOU looking in my window the other night], Georgia, do hereby make, publish, and declare this to be my last Will and Testament and hereby revoke any and all Wills and Codicils at any time heretofore made by me. [Writer’s note: ’bout damned time I got to use the word ‘heretofore’ on my website.]

FIRST: I declare that I am not married and have no children. However, I have [classified number] of cats and will address their needs and care below.

SECOND: I direct that the expenses of my funeral and burial be paid out of my estate. Since I am living even more in destitution than in sin, just throw me in the backyard and let the vultures get me. I can’t afford anything else. Any interested parties are welcome to fund a big fat funeral if needed — use the Aubrey O’Neil Sabala Wedding Fund that has approximately $17 to date.

THIRD: I give, devise and bequeath to the following addendumed individuals (in no specific order) absolutely if s/he survives me:

To Miss Valerie K. Williamson, I hereby bequeath my beloved booboos (cats/felines/strong dissuading factor in any and all serious relationships with lovely boys), including their $300 litter box and preponderance to poop in the bathtub. I also bequeath all of their belongings and toys, including the edamame shell that is likely located underneath my refrigerator and the chewed-up bag of catnip that adorns my hallway. In addition, the top of my hamper and main prop for Sebastian playing ‘Turtle’ will need to go as well. Tommy will just have to learn to love his new friends.

To Mrs. Kelly F. Moore, I hereby bequeath any and all pairs of cool shoes that I have, including, but not limited to, my Via Spigas and the Jimmy Choo’s that I’ve had my eye on for a long time (if they are purchased before my untimely demise.) I also bequeath this very cool blue/pink satin belt that would look great on her.

To Miss Sarah M. Simmons, I hereby bequeath any and all remaining bottles of “Chaser Hangover Medicine” because a) it works and b) I’ve never seen anyone besides myself get THAT hung over. I also bequeath her my magazine subscriptions and my badass Diesels with the red waistband as well as first pick of any item purchased at fab’rik between August 2002-May 2003.

To Miss Brandyn L. Long, I hereby bequeath my BELOVED vehicle as I definitely owe her one from that whole ‘totaling of the car’ incident on April 14, 2000.

To Miss Beth Ketchie Crowned Queen, I hereby bequeath any and all artifacts from Carolina Summer and my laundry hamper, which she has been known to sit in when inebriated. I would give her my clothes but even my smallest things fall off of her unfairly svelte frame, so she’ll have to settle for my knee-high black boots and whatever non-intellectual book she wants out of my collection. (Multiple of both.)

To Miss Tracy H. Tranguch, I hereby bequeath my jumbo-sized pack of toilet paper (located in the hall closet) as I know she enjoys having extended conversations with it in the wee hours of the night. I’ll also throw in some jewelry because, well, I’m nice like that.

To Mrs. Carianne M. Holton, I hereby bequeath that picture of us at Myrtle Beach with Tim the Cabana Boy that is found in the beach-motif frame on my dresser, to be handled (destroyed) as she sees fit. I also bequeath her first dibs on anything in my closet that would fit her skinny-bitch body. [Note: Jealousy abounds.]

To Miss Lelia S. Schwab, I hereby bequeath my ball gowns, formal dresses and my princess crown(s). Nobody deserves them more.

To Miss Elizabeth L. Jerome, I hereby bequeath all of my “Ann of Green Gables” books that are found in a box in the basement of my house in Westlake.

To Mr. Brian A. Kiger, I hereby bequeath him my endless adoration. Being one of an extremely non-materialistic nature, I’m sure he would want nothing more than that. But since I’m a giving person, I will also bequeath him my stuffed animal that he tied to the porch with a suicide note attached.

To Mr. Michael R. Warner, Jr., I hereby bequeath my cell phone. He needs one (though will surely be in mourning for too long to really make good use of it, what with my daily singing messages being gone.)

To Mr. Wil (with one ‘L’) Simmons, I hereby bequeath my hair products. And my hair dryer. He’ll know what to do with it.

To any and all of my ex or current boyfriends, I hereby bequeath my liquor collection, all of the beer in my fridge, and the items found in the bottom drawer of my bedside table. It’s first come, first serve. In addition, I bequeath all of the pictures of me to be divided evenly to effectively construct the Shrine to Aubrey (directions found in an attachment to follow).

To any and all of you who feels you’ve been unintentionally left out of my bequeathment, simply email me or leave a ‘thought’ and I’ll consider and respond accordingly.

FOURTH: I give and bequeath all of my tangible personal property, not otherwise disposed of, to Mrs. Sue C. and Mr. Edward R. Sabala, Jr. They can fight it out (though I’m guessing that Sue would like some clothes, the bedroom set and the jewelry. Ed’s got dibs on the computer equipment & other knicknacks of the dorky variety, of which there are plenty.)

In Witness Whereof, I have set my hand to this keyboard and typed this my Last Will and Testiment and have affixed my digital signature this Sixth day of May, 2003.

Aubrey O’Neil Sabala

Instant Gratification

You know how I always say I’m in love?

I mean it this time.


The best part (besides the obvious) is that I’ve got the BEST Vanity Plate idea ever:


Goodbye Sabala Saturn, Hello SAABALA.

I love my life.

(Now accepting donations so I can afford to eat…)

Ministry of Tourism

Welcome to the Land of Aubrey, where reality is a misnomer. Where things aren’t how they really are but are how you wish they were and how you want them to be…

In the Land of Aubrey, you never have to exercise. LA Fitness be damned, with its sweaty smelly bodybuilding Creatine-addicted MetRX pencil-neck asswipes, I never have to step foot in your fetid olfactory nightmare again. If one so chooses to go for a run outside, the Land of Aubrey is chock full o’ jasmine and honeysuckle with the perfect temperature of 75 degrees. Every. Single. Day.

Dating in the Land of Aubrey is perfect. Boy likes Girl, Girl chooses if she likes Boy, and, if so, humping shall ensue. There are no double-standards in this magical land. Spooning is required, morning sex is requested, and birth control makes you lose weight and increases the size of your breasts. If Girl tires of Boy in the Land of Aubrey, she tells him and doesn’t have to deal with him ever again. (Unless she starts thinking back on the good times, at which point Boy is required to call Girl with the sole purpose of stroking her ego, if not other unmentionables.)

People marry in the Land of Aubrey, with big, elaborate weddings that are paid for by the state. Nobody is allowed to leave these spectacular events after 15 minutes, even if they refuse to drink and want to go home. People cavort, drink, dance, smooch, imbibe, exhert, engage, entice, captivate, woo, enjoy, and other like verbs that mean they’re having nothing less than a kick-ass time. And no past misadventures are brought up during the speeches. The happy couple leaves to go to some tropical and wonderfully relaxing land to procreate their little hearts away, beckoned off by the tipsy wedding party and white rose petals. (No bubbles — those are gay.)

Working is optional in the Land of Aubrey. Everyone has plenty of what they so desire, be it Nutella or Mashed Potatoes or Fruit20 waters or avocados or Boys or Flowers or Sex or dogs or cats (which, incidentally, don’t actually poop. Ever.) so wanting is rare. People go to work to have something to complain about and a dedicated computer and free reign to email and IM to their little heart’s content.

Alcohol is the Nectar of the Land of Aubrey, and its National Drink. (The National Pastime is rampant sex, of course, with elevated foreplay levels; the National Songs are “In ‘da Club” and “Ignition Remix”, the National Movie is “Say Anything…”, the National Flag is in a lovely shade of pink; the National Flower is the Tulip; the Queen is, appropriately, Aubrey; applications for the King are still being taken.) People get as drunk as they want to in the Land of Aubrey — criminals are the only ones who get so drunk that they pee/barf/shit on themselves. Hangovers don’t exist. Accordingly, there is no such thing as ‘whisky dick.’ It is fine to drink after work, by yourself, on your deck, on a coastal town (the Land of Aubrey, being paradise, contains midland mountains and is entirely surrounded by water, it’s definitely a coastal town. Dawson’s Creek tried to film at the Land of Aubrey but was rejected by its Board of Regents because James van der Beek’s head would take up too much square footage.) Drunk dialing increases your yearly revenue as well as your probability for sex.

The Land of Aubrey is a hedonistic pleasure paradise, and relaxation is key. Stress levels and blood pressures are outstandingly low; disease and illness are uncommon. All the hot men are single (until the Queen chooses otherwise,) all the drinks are double, and all the orgasms are triple.

I hate waking up.

Fun Aubrey

Remember that episode of Friends where Monica’s boyfriend is an alcoholic, they stage an intervention, he decides to stop drinking and, Voila! He’s no longer fun? Fun Bobby?

Apparently I’m Fun Aubrey, and Fun Aubrey isn’t that Fun when not drinking.

Confused? Well, I decided to scale back a bit. When you find yourself updating your website in NYC after coming home from a bar where you not only caught up with a friend but were well versed in TMI by the end of the night, you may need to take a look around. When your outgoing call log only shows the LAST 10 drunk calls you made, ranging from 2-2:15am, you should probably take a look around. When you receive an email from a total stranger stating that you promised to marry him for a beer, you should DEFINITELY take a look around. When you find yourself ordering online hangover medicine , it’s probably time to do something. No shock, no awe, but quite a few people are in disbelief.

Do I think I have a drinking problem? Definitely not. I don’t go home after work and crack open a brew or mix a tasty concoction on the rocks or uncork a huge bottle of vino. I don’t drink by myself (unless on the road.) That said, I’m finally getting back in shape, running, training, whatnot and figured if I was gonna go, I might as well go all out. (Take note: This is my new motto for everything — and I DO mean EVERYTHING.)

So I tried it. Last Friday, after a week of training, drinking, imbibing, training, emailing, calling, irritating, training, drinking, and, well, drinking, I decided to put my plan in action. Day one: No alcohol. I carried it over to Saturday as well, and attended a cookout/horseshoe game and a party/fashion show. (Two separate events, but I challenge anyone to combine the four. OH! Perhaps for my party on June 21st! But I digress…) One beer was consumed (and it was one of those nasty Michelob Ultra Lites, at that.) I was on a ROLL! I was dodging peer pressure right and left. I was receiving incredulous glances all around, questions on why I was on the wagon, and an offer to strut my stuff on the fashion show stage which I likely would have accepted had I been inebriated. (That’s another story entirely, though.) Was I bored? Nope. Was I enjoying myself? Sure! I was tired from my run earlier that day, but lo and behold, I was still having a good time. Yet, the $64,000 question: were OTHERS enjoying me? Sadly, no.

“You suck!”
“You’re no fun when you’re sober.”
“Why do you wanna go home? Wuss. Stay out. No rest for the wicked.”

And still I prevailed. I made it through. There was a noticeable decrease in my poor decisions (though already today I have made 2 quite significant potentially bad ones alone), a noticeable decrease in my drunk calls, (there were a few, but SERIOUSLY just a few), and a noticeable INCREASE in my energy level on Sunday. (It’s amazing what you can do without a hangover.) I went to the parties, I went to the bar, and I even cracked my shit up over some of the horrifically rude comments I was throwing out. (Ex.: Friend: “Where did that girl go?” Me: “To go hit herself with the ugly stick a few more times.” God I’m a riot.)

Do I plan on staying on the wagon? I’ve already ‘fallen off,’ per se, since I was found drinking straight out of the PBR $3.25 pitcher last night at Mo’s & Jo’s. That said, I had the equivalent of 2 beers. I made only one (ok, two) drunk calls, but those are of the required kind (what would Mike do without me singing on his machine!?) I woke up this morning, only hitting the snooze bar four times (a pretty good showing), bright-eyed and well-coiffed and alas, I think I’ve conquered it — the fermented-nectar-that-is-alcohol beast. Move over David, I’m taking on Goliath.

Perhaps my new motto should be:
“Everything in moderation. Including moderation itself.”

Has a ring to it, don’t ya think?

guilty pleasures

  • Jonny Mosely hosting MTV’s “Battle of the Sexes”
  • Samoas, eaten slowly, almost sensually, to savor even the last piece of decadent chocolate-covered coconut and caramel. It’s 3 months later and I’ve not yet made it through a box (a new record.)
  • My bed. I challenge anyone to find a more comfortable one. EVER.
  • Picking off my nail polish
  • “Rock Your Body” by Justin Timberlake
  • Waking up and telling the person next to you the dream you just had, however long and involved and nonsensical that it is
  • Bubble baths…or baths themselves…in tandem
  • Remembering only the good times
  • Hotel rooms
  • Making my own decisions, whether they’re the right one or not, and being comfortable with making them anyway
  • Green Giant cans of corn
  • Walking barefoot as much as I can
  • Books that don’t make me more intelligent in the least, but make me get away from it all for a while. “Come Together” by Emlyn Rees & Josie Lloyd is a great example
  • MTV. (Speaking of, be sure to watch Tucker on Thursday, 10pm, on Sex Club: High Speed Dating. Info found here. If you’re in Atlanta, we’re hosting a viewing party — details to come.)
  • WE (Women’s Entertainment) and the Felicity reruns on it
  • Spending a large amount of time reading this. And this. And this. And this. And, most recently, this.
  • Ryan Phillipe, circa “Cruel Intentions.” He’s THIS close to being added to my Top Five. (Kirk, better watch out.)
  • The fact that Ashton Kutcher and Britney Murphy broke up.
  • Barbra Streisand/Barry Gibb duets
  • Sundays
  • Summer salads, complete with toasted almonds, avocados, and mandarin oranges
  • The giddy feeling that permeates your every action when you’re in the midst of a new crush. Or in the midst of an old crush, reinvented.
  • Counting the days until Memorial Day beach weekend. Wrightsville, beware.
  • Going through old pictures, old emails, old letters, old journals. They say hindsight is 20/20, and if only I realized that last year, I could have saved my heart a little pain.
  • Fruit roll-ups
  • Living alone. (For now.)
  • “Still Not a Player” for the line “Hot Tub, Poppin’ Bubbly…” Makes me think of Senior year in college & a certain someone who, one night, was so drunk that he could only sing that line, over and over (and over) again. Still puts a smile on my face.
  • The fact that I found out that my ex is moving back to Atlanta, and I honestly couldn’t care less, proving that time does heal, or at the very least, helps.
  • Sleeping with the windows open and the feel of the breeze on my neck
  • Remembering.


For one reason or another, I get a lot of questions, sent to me via email, phone, etc. They’re about anything and everything you could think of — good hotels in various cities, computer-related inquiries, restaurant suggestions, and so many more that defy a singular category that I’ll just let you use your imagination. As such, I’ve even contemplated making an “Ask Aubrey” site to answer these in a public venue, since very few topics are taboo with me. In the meantime, I’ve gotten a lot of questions lately, so figured this would be a lovely way to spend a Friday afternoon and decided to answer them.

Q: What are some good restaurants in Atlanta to go to for a group dinner?
A: I always first recommend “ONE.Midtown Kitchen.” They have a fantastic back room/patio that has a view of the skyline, and they’ve always been great to accommodate a larger group. That said, expect a wait if you’re just going there for dinner — it’s the only thing I have found to be somewhat sub-par about the place. (Both the food and drink menus are good and won’t cost you an arm and a leg.) Other than that, you can always do the Tapas route (not my favorite, but a lot of people enjoy.) Eclipse di Luna in Miami Circle is preferred over Loca Luna, and though it doesn’t accommodate a larger group that well, my favorite is actually Cafe Tu Tu Tango in Buckhead. For general other restaurante suggestions, a little-known gem is “Vinocity” (13th and W. Peachtree, caddy-cornered from Cosmopolitan.) First, they have a TON of wines, all of which you can get by the glass. Secondly, their menu, while sounding eclectic, doesn’t disappoint. It’s not bargain basement prices, but it’s affordable if you’re looking for a nicer meal and the decor of this converted house is very urban, soothing, and cool. The best deal in town for sushi is actually Benihana (on Peachtree) — note that you have to sit at the sushi bar to get the deals but the Buckhead Roll is HUGE, decadent, and like $5. Johnny’s Pizza & Subs on Elizabeth Street in Inman Park (they have other locations around the city) is a cheese-lover’s fantasy. Get the Calzone. To top it all off, Cafe Intermezzo has a frighteningly large selection of desserts — pies, cakes, tortes, and the like. Their ‘smaller plates’ are a good appetizer, and it’s romantic. When all you want is an ice cream cone, nothing beats Jake’s Ice Cream (two locations: one in Midtown behind Benihana, the other in Inman Park on N. Highland.)

Q: How do you build and maintain your website?
A: I was lucky enough to have worked for a great company when I first moved to Atlanta, with truly the smartest and most talented designers around. Not only were they skillful, they were — are! — so very helpful in all things design and coding-related, and nary a week goes by that I still email/IM someone with a dumb techie question that I can’t figure out. I use Dreamweaver for my design and Movable Type as my content management system. I’m a moron with CSS and still haven’t gotten it to look the way I want it to, but it’s coming.

Q: Aren’t you always changing jobs? Why?
A: True, this is my third job since I’ve lived in Atlanta. I moved down here to work for Macquarium, which I did for nearly 2 years, and then was recruited by Booz Allen Hamilton to write for the CDC. Let’s just say that never happened — the only writing I did my entire time there was a formal letter of complaint. I’m now at Google and am happy as a clam. (It’s about time, too — I swear half of my friends were close to killing me with my clinginess and high-maintenance attitude of “EMAIL/CALL/VISIT ME NOW” — what can I say? Boredom doesn’t suit me well.

Q: Who are you dating these days?
A: Boys. (Note the plural.)

Q: Do you have any suggestions for weddings?

A: Um, general question, but the answer is yes. Go here. And here. And here. And here. Oh, and if I’m your friend, I’ll do your calligraphy.

Q: What is your favorite city in America? What about the world?
A: America — well, I do love San Diego. The weather, the beach — wonderful. The older I get, the more I know I want to settle down close to the water, or at least have a house there. (Wrightsville Beach is pretty fantastic, too.) I also love the Green River Valley in Utah — I went on a trip my Senior year in High School to Canyonlands National Park, and I can’t tell you how often I still think about that time. It was in the midst of chaos — graduating, not knowing where I was going to school, being head over heels for this boy, yada yada, and I found peace in the land. I think the sentiment is common amongst those of us who went. For urban areas, Chicago and DC are the front runners. New York overwhelms me a bit, to be perfectly honest. In the world, Sydney. I would move there in a heartbeat, no regrets.

Q: Do you like being an only child?
A: This question always irks me, as I’ve never known anything else. But, in a general sense, yes. I have an extremely close relationship with both of my parents, and I think a lot of that has to do with the fact that I’m an only child. That said, I do remember a time when I was practically running a campaign to get a brother and sister — I remember going on walks with my Mom and trying to strategically convince her that it was a good idea. Needless to say, my view didn’t prevail. Re: the requisite spoiled question, yes, at times, I was. I always had what I needed, and often even had everything I wanted. Still, I appreciated — and do appreciate — it, and know how lucky I was. These days, I would say I’m far from spoiled, for one reason or another, and have learned the meaning and value of money, things, friends, etc.

Q: You drunk dial more than anyone I’ve ever met. Why?
A: I’m communicative. I lose track of how many times I have already called. And, above all, I have a skewed sense of self when drunk. I honestly believe that you, whoever you are, really DO want to talk to me. Right then. About whatever I want. It’s my only child coming out with a vengeance.

There’s a ton more I could answer, so to you, ask away. (Email me or post in the comments, and I’ll add here.) After all, I’m never one to mince words…


Thoughts while inebriated (currently):

1. Chris Isaak is a sex god. Wicked Game, right now, is my ultimate aphrodesiac. Thank GOD I’m not staying here in NYC by myself — you lucked out, my friend…
2. If I called and sang on your answering machine tonite, please don’t forward to my Mom. She’ll still be irked that I stopped my voice lessons years ago. And it shows.
3. John Cusack, despite being the quintessential beta male, warms my heart.
4. I’m reconsidering my asshole post. Let’s just say that the non-asshole male is leading. In a huge way. I’m reverting to past days, and for once, it’s not a bad thing. You know who you are, and the answer is ‘yes.’
5. I found the best anti-hangover medicine ever. It’s called Chaser and let me just tell you, it works. I only wish I had overnighted my order today…
6. “Bonita Applebaum” is now my second favorite song. B Kigs, I miss you. Emphatically.
7. They have Pret a Manger here in NYC. It was as close as I’ve been to a mid-day orgasm when I found this out. For anyone who spent as much time as I did in London, you understand. The rest of you can go to hell.

Other than that, for those of you who are going to a wedding with me in a week’s time, you will be very, VERY pleased at my purchase. For those of you who are coming into town for my birthday (note that the party has been pushed back until June 20-22), you, as well, will be very pleased. For those of you who made me just laugh tonite, unabashedly as always, to the point where I almost hopped on a train to see you, I was serious when I said that I wanted this played as the backdrop at our wedding. I’m glad you agree.

And on that note, U2 is playing “With or Without You”, live, on my MP3 player. It’s late. I’m quasi-incoherent. And yet, I’m happier than I’ve been in a long time. You know who you are.


Number of employees at the this office: Roughly 80
Number of female employees at this office: Roughly 40
Number of female employees at this office that I wouldn’t be caught dead with at a beach because they are so thin that I am externally seething with jealousy right this second: Roughly 30
Number of female employees at this office that would instantly be hit on my all of my male friends if, in fact, they were to live in NYC: Roughly 30
Number of soft-drink-esque things offered: 12 varieties
Number of diet or calorie free soft-drink-esque things offered: 8
Number of female employees at this office that are drinking REAL coke vs. diet anything: Roughly 29 of the 30. Life is NOT fair.
Number of snack foods that are offered: Roughly 20
Number of LOW FAT snack foods that are offered: 2
Number of female employees that are partaking in the 18 non-low-fat offers: Roughly 28 of the 30. Again, not fair.
Number of Fruit 2 0 waters that I have drank today: 6
Cost of my club sandwich last night: $27
Cost of my glasses of wine (per glass) that I drank because I was so pissed that my club sandwich was nothing but crap: $15
Cost of that girlish blush as a result of multiple glasses of said red wine last night: Classified
Cost of my PREFERRED way to get that girlish blush and the rosiness in my cheeks (post-coital, of course): Priceless (and free.)
Number of phone calls received last night: 6
Number of DRUNK people I talked to last night: 3
Number of post 2-am phone calls I received last night: 2
Number of people who pledged their undying love to me via the phone last night, post 2am: Classified
Number of people who expressed concern over my trip to Chicago: Roughly 10
Number of people who still aren’t talking to me because I did, in fact, go on my trip to Chicago: 1
Number of people made jealous by my trip to Chicago: The list continues to grow
Number of people I proposed to this week: 2
Number of people I promised to NOT propose to this week if they would help me with my 401k form: 1
Number of meetings I just attended with my fly down: 4
My mortification: Priceless.

asshole attraction

Attraction — the factors that make one person attractive to or attracted to another is a topic that has been studied for years. From animal behavior to evolutionary psychology, scientists continue to study what makes one person/animal pursue another. The self-help section at Border’s is full of books on this topic, offering tips, rules, and the like to maximize your attractiveness or to ‘get the love you want.’ Rigggghhttt…as if a book is going to do that for anyone.

Basically, however, this subject has intrigued me for years, as it seems I’m inherently prone to poor choices. Give me a room of 99 nice men and one asshole and you know who I’ll pick. I’m sure a psychologist could relate it to some repressed memory of rejection on the playground or something equally inane, but to me it still remains perplexing.

It may have something to do with my impatience — if I was a Greek Goddess, it would be impatience, not hubris, that led to my tragic demise. Or perhaps it’s my hatred of all things game-playing-related — with me, it’s pretty much what you see is what you get (another result of my impatience — I truly don’t have the energy or patience to play some stupid hard to get game. Hmm, maybe that’s why I’m single…)

But I digress. What I find most intriguing is the asshole clause: women are naturally attracted to guys who are jerks. I’m the poster child for this activity: I was told a few months ago that my current crush was, and I quote, “EVEN WORSE and a much bigger asshole than my last ex-boyfriend.” (To this, I wonder why nobody clued me in on this little tidbit when I was dating him, but that’s another story entirely.) And yet it remains. Again and again, I find myself seeking out the rogue, the bad boy, the jerk, the womanizer, the cheater, the liar, the player. (And often all of this in one person.) Some have hypothesized that I secretly want to be the person to change them — I disagree entirely. That would be like skipping the pursuit and just settling with the result — completely unsatisfying. I have no desire to change these guys; moreover, I embrace their inner (and outer) asshole. I’m intrigued by it. It draws me in like white on rice, flies to shit, and any other bad analogy that my semi-hungover brain can’t quite come up with right now.

Others say it’s the challenge itself — I can see that. By nature, I’m a pretty competitive person so to ‘accomplish my goal’ by ‘getting’ the asshole, I’d be lying if I didn’t say that it does appeal to me. But that’s not the main reason…

Now, there is a disclaimer here. If you’re an ugly asshole, you can’t get away with it. Neither can you if you’re a stupid asshole — intelligence is my ultimate aphrodesiac. But if you’re attractive and intelligent, I’m practically throwing myself at your feet. More than fame, more than fortune, more that the attention that I so obviously desire, I seek out the bad seeds.

As such, I’ve done a very informal study (read: drunk conversations with my friends) on this issue, and have found it best discussed via a message board and eloquently written by my friend, so for your intellectual stimulation and an invokation to comment, I’m re-printing it here:

Here is the deal with asshole game. Simply put, women like assholes because of three main reasons:

1. They don’t have a whole lot of respect for themselves, and assholes treat them the way they feel about themselves: Like shit.

2. Asshole behavior is often seen as interesting, intriuging or challenging, where nice guys are seen as boring or weak. Which would you rather be around?

3. Asshole behavior is seen as a proxy for power, the sexiest thing a man can have.

Women look for different things than men do in a partner. Women look for power and all of their proxies, things like accomplishment, ambition, money, social rank, etc. Yes, as they mature they look for other things like compassion, humor, etc, but power and its proxy behaviors will always be the most stimulating aphrodisiac.

The simple fact is, acting like an asshole is often seen as a proxy behavior for power. The underlying assumption, not always conscious, is that a man who disregards women or treats women less than optimally does so because he is able too, having so many other women after him, and thus any man who is that attractive to other women becomes more attractive. Women want men that other women want, and one way to signal a woman that other woman want you is to ignore or be an asshole to her.

Now, by being an asshole, this does not mean being a fucking dickhead. You can’t go up to a woman and say something like, “Hey bitch, wrap your whore lips around my cock,” and expect that to work. Being an asshole in this context means “having an edge.” For instance, you make fun of the girl, not necessarily in a mean way but in an observant way. Or you disregard certain wishes of hers, especially if they conflict with yours.

Really, it’s more of an attitude than anything else. It’s the projection of the idea that you are an alpha male, and your wishes take precedent over the wishes of others, and that your will dominates.

Though I know many will disagree, I think he just hit the nail on the head. Let the rebuttals begin…


So, I’m back…and yes, I survived. Mother Nature cooperated with the weather, and Chicago was great.

A few stories and points of clarification:

1. The Saturday prior to Chicago, we went to Steeplechase here in Atlanta. To say “a fun time was had by all” is to put it mildly. Yes, it is true that I did a shot of Goldschlager in the 10am hour. Yes, it is true that I rode the mechanical bull in my sundress. Yes, it is true that I got bucked off of the mechanical bull in my sundress. Yes, it is true that the strap broke on my dress and I flashed approx. the 50 people watching me ride the mechanical bull in my sundress. The rest of the stories are classified.

2. Had a good time in Chicago. Tucker Max is everything he says he is on his website, and an inordinate amount more.

3. Jerry Springer isn’t staged — at least, it doesn’t seem that way. We went to a taping of Springer on Monday, a result of some mischevious acts of identity fraud and sneakiness on our parts. He’s written about it on his web-board if you want the full story.

Other than that, my to-do list is an exercise in futility (similar to my checkbook being merely an exercise in subtraction) and I’ve got far too much to do. With that, check out the new pics on the site, I promise more entertaining stories in the future, and have a great holiday weekend.