If you’ve used Tinder you’ve probably spent a fair amount of time staring at a blank message prompt desperately trying to think of something clever to text that one slightly average looking person who probably swiped you by accident, and then resorted to Googling pick up lines in hopes that somebody on the internet is spending their refractory period writing dating advice that you can use. Finding a brilliant opener is a tricky proposition, even for the best of us so I’ve pulled a few gems from America’s favorite pant-suited seductress that are guaranteed to get you digits. (more…)
By Staff Writer
If there’s one unwritten rule, or more accurately, one horrifically overwritten rule, it’s that before you can start enjoying that relationship you have to actually meet another human being first. And that invariably is going to involve a little flirting, so thank God that Cosmo is riding into town again in a drunken stupor of stupidly that only a man writing for, well Cosmo could hope to achieve.
Follow me below the fold to find out why if you’re getting dating advice from a magazine you’re probably still single…
By Staff Writer
Recently the CEO of a major internet technology firm admitted that women who hide their long sexy hair under a hat are deliberately paid less than those who wear skimpy cleavage-empowering clothing to the cubicle farm. This never-before-revealed corporate secret is a winning strategy engineered to discourage the wearing of unflattering office attire among the token skirts and promote high morale among the male staff (who do all the real work anyway).
I’m a bad ass hard-as-nails police detective that doesn’t play by the rules. Rules like going to the academy or being a real cop. I crack the cases other detectives are afraid to touch. Give me a bottle of Jack and a .44 and I’ll make you hit the high notes like that Bieber girl. The uniforms hid behind their badges. All I’ve got is a six day shadow, death’s grin, and a fedora pulled so low you’ll piss yourself. I once worked a case where the mob carved a lighting bolt into some poor bastard’s head. At least he died fast.
There was more blood and alcohol on my trench coat than on the floor of a free clinic. But for an extra Jackson the hookers pretend not to care. At least when they’re still alive anyway. Looks like somebody had been here first; operating on an entirely foreign definition of the word ‘fun’. I had a killer to track, one who might appreciate my sense of justice. Maybe we could compare notes; the schizophrenic ramblings screaming through my brain. I made a list:
Handcuffs are for the rookies. When I get my man I just tell the coroner where to pick up the bodies he was hiding behind.
The only weight I watch is the one tied around your ankles. Better start talking before I decide to start feeding the fish.
Weak men drink to forget the things they’ve done. I do shots in between breaking fingers. I brought a second bottle for the toes.
The last guy that called me a dirty cop cleaned my shoes with his tongue. After I’d cut it out. The Chinese laundry gave me hell for that one.
She twists the knife in my back so tenderly it could almost be mistaken for love. Almost.
They teach the rookies not to tamper with a crime scene. I like to think of it as a private garage sale.
Every sunless alley is a den of depravity. Every round from my .44 a bark of justice. There are no innocents victims here, only loose ends.
With every drink I become more awake. Whispers crushing my shoulders, guiding me into shadows. When the demons come, I’ll be waiting.
Every night the city screams; I make it softer one voice at a time. When it becomes only a whisper, I’ll know the last bullet is for me.
Every item punctuated by another shot. A list that made no sense even while I thought of it. Clarity was as fleeting as the liquor in my hand. Empty. I needed answers. And a refill. I knew a place that served both.
The mob’s fingerprints were all over the mute snitches in this bar. But a couple kneecaps later and they were ready to sing like a single mom at karaoke. A crack in my case was cause for celebration. But I’d settle for another drink. Five fingers of Jack whose only subtle notes are the layers of grime caked on this glass. I took the bottle to go. I had a case to solve, and the only leads in this dive were deader than the hookers stacking up in the dumpsters. I left the bartender a generous tip. Always did feel guilty about breaking a good barman’s arm.
The night too me into its arms, welcoming me home. It would be morning soon; the city would hide its depravity in broad daylight. It would pretend not to be sick, the human filth desperately convincing themselves they were clean. Lock the door. Shut the blinds. Collapse on a filthy couch. My nightmares knew the city’s true nature; the demons I still had left to kill.
You travel beyond Thunderdome despite the chipper warnings of a talking dog.
You follow a broken road that leads only in a single direction. Behind you only the black nothingness of despair.
A sign stretches across the road. Its original message obscured with an ominous warning scrawled in blood.
A chill penetrates your body. You kill a passing wizard for his cloak. With his dying breath he utters a curse but the words you choose to hear are gibberish.
Ahead a man is tied upside down to a post. A crude mockery of a scarecrow. He has no eyes or tongue but you hear his whispers inside your head.
A child appears by your side… no, a man no taller than your waist. He clutches a length of rope, the other end tied to the head of a lion dragging behind him.
Through a crooked smile and blackened teeth he sucks at a lollipop. His gaze turns to your cloak and soon fear fills his deadened eyes.
He glances back at the scarecrow and mutters “the road is a liar” then shuffles off into an ash covered cornfield.
Ahead the road forks. A signpost offers a City of Jewels to the left, Plain of Despair to your right, and a blank sign points to your feet.
Looking down, you can make out words carved faintly into the uneven yellowed bricks. “You have no choices, the road is a circle.”
Here among unfamiliar ground, the wisdom of a coin is the only guide you can truly trust.
Taking the right fork, you soon come upon a man in a silver suit seated at a barren table, drinking from an empty soda bottle.
He frowns at you, then picks a pair of spotless white galoshes from beside him and hands them to you.
“For the puddles.”
He waves you away, clearly intent on finishing his drink.
A sunless sky dims behind you, urging you forward. Soon colorless fields give way to regimental arrays of perfectly trimmed trees.
The road becomes a parody of a funhouse. Crimson liquid oozes from between the bricks;
bubbling and popping with the sound of mocking laughter;
filling the depressions;
surrounding you in blood.
Remembering the galoshes in your hand, you ease them over tattered shoes while your reflection stares back at you from a mirror of blood.
Gingerly you cross through a crimson sea to higher ground. The road ahead snakes into fractured cliffs. Fading footprints mark your passage.
A hot air balloon drifts low overheard, a figure leans over the basket and gestures you towards a narrow passage between the rocks.
Sharp rocks tear at your cloak as you squeeze yourself through a final crack.
You rejoin the ruined road and descend into hills of golden grass.
The yellow bricks become sparse as the road narrows to no more than a dirt path. On a hill ahead you see a muddy hovel adorned in shards of emerald glass.
Desiccated corpses of a dozen crows hang from the eaves, swaying in a nonexistent breeze to ward you away.
Through grime caked windows you glimpse a fleeting figure. Suddenly you find yourself bathed in shadow as a silhouette eclipses the sky.
Confusion rapidly gives way to joists and floorboards. Your last sensations are tiny hands tugging at your feet, tearing at the crimson galoshes.
The words of the dying wizard become suddenly clear:
“In Which Mel ‘Mad Max’ Gibson Finds Himself Unexpectedly Deceased Via a Falling House” echoes in your head.