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Hot Dating Tips for the Flirtation-Impaired

Another Red Herring memory. I am secure sharing this because I have grown a lot since then. I can still remember that shy, awkward girl who could barely get a date. How things change…Now I have plenty of men not calling me back!

Hot Dating Tips for the Flirtation-Impaired

Hey Ladies. Ever wondered what all those girls lugging 190 pounds of hot, sexy man-flesh on their arm have that you don’t have? After reading this article, the answer will be: nothing, except for maybe a glitter g-string shaped like a butterfly and lose morals. However, with a little perseverance and hard work, you can have that too, and the man of your dreams!

I know we all long for the days of etiquette classes, when all the enigmatic ins and outs of flirtation would be integrated into a curriculum in the stead of the worthless knowledge that is science, math and spelling. I know that I long for the days when the only education my sex merited was learning how to maintain a flattering posture while carrying a book upon one’s head and curtsying in a way that best displayed one’s heaving bosom to Mr. Darcy. If only modern society provided us liberated women with the skills to appear super DTF with sophistication. Unfortunately, I can’t give you these tools which might have rendered you barefoot and pregnant at sixteen. I can, however, give you the next best thing: the Globerman Guide to Flirting.

Many have tried and failed in describing the subtle blend of feminine wiles that comprise my sex appeal, using words such as: inept, confusing, and “is she having a seizure or is she batting her eyelashes”.  I prefer to think of my mojo as a Geisha-esque mastery of the art of seduction. However, this art is no easy task to master. For one, there are several things to remember when flirting.  Most important, is never to be yourself. Yourself sits at home in sweatpants with a worn-out crotch, crying at Battlestar Galactica reruns, and farting with the carefree abandon of someone who will die alone. Instead, try acting like a better, more high-maintenance and less moral, you. Do things like talk about your hair, your lack of underpants, and how little you know, like, so little about current events. Due to deeply ingrained hunter-gatherer instincts, men like it when they detect the potential to instruct a woman.

Conversation is also bad for flirtation: how does he expect to fit his dick in your mouth when it’s full of adverbs and conjunctions? Instead of conversing with him, try just laughing at everything he says, regardless if it is a joke or not. This way he will see that you have a great sense of humor and little to offer him besides your body. THAT MEANS SEX GIRLS! When you have no choice but to talk, offer one word, randomized responses: Ex. “Oh, how am I? Morgan Freeman.” By not paying any attention to what he is saying, you will appear aloof and hard to get; and we all know men like a challenge, especially when it refers to a mental challenge!

There is not one, but two crucial elements to flirting: the entrance and the exit. When entering a situation with flirting-potential, it is important to show that you are a confident, independent woman; this way he will be convinced that you are into some pretty progressive shit. Approach him unflinchingly, like you are walking away from a series of high-impact explosions, out of which a series of flaming motorcycles speed forth, impeded only by the fantasy wind-machines that blow back your radiant mane. The maneuver relies on the sort of unbridled confidence gained by a first-year management student after his fifth Yager-bomb, coupled with that earned by Lady Gaga at a drag competition.

As for the exit, make sure to leave before you make a fool of yourself, because knowing you, it’s likely to happen at any minute. Appropriate times to exit the premises include: while he is in mid sentence, while you are in mid-sentence, when he sips his beer, when you sip your beer, when a song comes on that he might want to dance to, and during any suggestive silence that might lead to hand-holding or intercourse. This exit can be accomplished as a dash, a trudge, or even a cower, and might be accompanied by all sorts of mumbled incoherence’s and evasions of eye contact. There is no limit on the variations you can attempt: don’t be afraid to try something new. Remember, guys like it when you shake things up a little.

The beauty of these flirting tips is their diversity; they offer so many ways to give off those craved mixed-signals that will leave him wondering: is it her libido or her mild turrets? Sticking to this advice will provide you with endless COCKed eyebrows, ENGORGED frowns and the STAYING POWER of his general disapproval. Although you might not be able to cross your heels when you walk or crochet a murkin from wool left over post-sheep-shearing, with these tips you will be able to wiggle and giggle your way to a very satisfying love life (though possibly one that involves only one person and a LOT of batteries).


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Yet another throw-back to my McGill era days writing for The Red Herring Magazine. This is probably the longest humour piece I have written and sadly, it is about juggalos. As I went riffling through my old comedy pieces I found another article, on top of this one, that was also about Juggalos. It is a phase every girl goes through in her youth. Then hopefully she gets anti-biotics and marries a lawyer.

Juggalove isn’t online anymore, fyi. I may have received a death threat for writing this, but those guys are now living a life of celibacy, so who has the last laugh?

Without further ado:

I Juggalove You: Looking for Romance the ICP Way

  As we near Valentine’s Day, we are reminded of how important love is to each and every one of us.  Yet, I’ve often found it hard to believe that anyone could love a certain posse of face painted buffoons whose pastimes include candlelit diners, Faygo showers and break dancing in clown suits. This select group otherwise referred to as “juggalos” and “juggalettes” are followers of the influential ex-cons-cum-troubadours known as the Insane Clown Posse.  I set about satisfying my clownish curiosity the way most people do: online. Juggalove.com is the ICP interpretation of PlentyofFish except with less middle aged mothers of three and more teenage mothers of three. Thus, armed with my love for comedy, child hood clown related trauma, and kinky penchant for grease paint, I decided to venture into the twisted romantic labyrinth of the Juggalo.   Step 1: The Identity   After watching a 12 hour marathon of Jenny Jones, Ricky Lake, Maury, Jerry Springer and Montel (the thinking man’s midday trailer talk show host), I was ready to venture into the heart of Juggalove.  Like most juggalos, the website introduced itself by panhandling. Juggalove.com begged followers to save their Faygo funds and donate to updating the site to a 2.0 version. This pinnacle development in software – the likes of which Isaac Asimov ne’er dreamed – would offer adult photo albums and “more juggalettes!!!”.  Pioneering this path to Singularity were ZING and DJKittieX, members of Juggalove who had already donated 250 dollars to the greater good; quite a feat considering Walmart only pays minimum wage. After giving a cursory look at the volume of neck tattoos and dropped g’s in the user profiles, I figured “Jordana Globerman – McGill U1” might be a little to elitist a persona for Juggalove. I decided to go undercover.  With the suave mystique of a Dana Carvery’s Master of Disguise, I assumed the virtual identity of Candie Rice, alias shaggysgurl. Candie was my dream juggalette: young, borderline illiterate, and looking for love – specifically the type of love that can be traded on craigslist. She spent quality time “jus chillin” and “hangin out with her fellow los and lettes” and she urged many and all not to hate. Her use of emoticons was almost erudite in precision, underscoring her thoughts and feelings with meaningful expression. X’s and O’s lingered after her name like a subtle perfume, a stolen kiss, or a distant memory. Candie xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo.   Step 2: The Lure   Two days had passed and still no one had “hit Candie up”. To make matters worse, her member status was “scrub”, and it is common knowledge that a scrub is a guy – or gal – who can get no love from me. Candie’s lack of profile picture was a turn off. Without it she was just another piece of meat painted in smudged primary colours. I hadn’t given up hope on my alter ego.  With the help of “personal information” questionnaires I hoped to truly convey Candie’s Juggalescence by answering questions like “How much do you enjoy oral sex?” and “How do you play with food during sex?” I wish I made up the following questions, but their staggering genius is solely the property of the great minds at Juggalove.com:   “What is your education?” a “School of life” (That was actually an option)   Q: “What was the last thing you read?” A: “I just finished reading a wicked autobiography of Mankind (that dude is sweet) and I am half-way through Ulysses.”   “What STDs are you comfortable with your partner having?” q Genital warts?                             q HSV Type I?       q What about type II? q STD free (tested regularly)? q HIV positive?      q AIDS? q Hepatitis?                                    q Gonorrhoea?        q Syphilis? q HPV?                                           a None of the above?   Step 3: The Soulmate   It’s been a few weeks and Candie’s still clownless. I try to tell myself it’s not me, it’s them; but getting rejected by a bunch of guys named Bubba tends to take its toll on your self esteem. I filter through potential suitors for Candie over at the “Hot or Not” section of Juggalove – a sort of soulless Customer Satisfaction Survey where Candie can rate other single pierrots. Here we find such lookers as mrBones, posing in a hockey mask a la Jason. I give rate him 9 out of 10 since all Candie’s ever wanted is a man who will chainsaw her to death in her sleep. I stumble across one upstanding jester whose only criteria for soulmate is a gal who celebrates 4:20 everyday. There is some potential in one candidate; sure his face is half obscured by his bandana and his grammar is less that MLA but he’s kind hearted and I don’t get weird “he’s going to rape and kill me although possibly not in that order” vibes from looking into his eyes. He’s also funny. He says he could make me laugh just by texting me, which I assume will be a regular occurrence when he’s off away in jail.  He continues; “I like pain,” he writes. “I like to be bitten. It’s a must.”  Ok, I get it. We all have our things, but is this really how you want to introduce yourself? Does your resume read “Personal Skills: Open communication, able to multitask, owns a ball-gag”? Candie’s becoming a nun. I thought of messaging some of my fellow Juggalos but I could never bring myself to do it. It seemed cruel. Going into this I had made up my mind about Juggalos; they were a pathetic excuse for a subculture, one step below Furries.  I let my bias against bands signed to the same label as Bubba Sparxxx overrule my impartiality as journalist. Candie taught me a very important lesson: deep down, every one of us wants to feel accepted.  We don’t want to be judged by the color of our face-paint or the brand of our sugary pop drink. In that vein, are we really so different?  Does the tired business man differ so greatly from the single mother working at Arby’s, or the hotel heiress spreading her thighs via internet, or the poor disenfranchised youth who paints his face like a clown each morning upon waking up, before grabbing his hatchet and heading off for school?  I think the real moral of the story here – the ICP universal truth – is that we are all brothers, and that it is our actions, not our outward appearances, that will determine our lot of neden received in Shangri-la.  And let us all say: I will be down with the clown until I am dead in the ground.

By: Jordana Globerman