In the Land of Lesbianon!

single-ladies-lesbianon

As we grow older, and as more of our friends get married, we naturally become more aware of how “alone” and “single” we are, and tend to settle for the next best thing just so we don’t get left behind. I for one am content with being single, so long as I’m not stuck in a half-ass relationship with a slob who thinks that wiping urine off his toilet seat is “effort.” On the other hand, several of my single lady friends (and acquaintances) cannot seem to stop complaining about men (or lack thereof) – and this entails the following deep and philosophical questions:

1.       Why do I always fall for assholes?

Because you’re an asshole – to yourself. When you genuinely love someone, you can’t allow yourself to hurt or mistreat them. Now apply that to yourself. If you genuinely love yourself, you can’t allow anyone to hurt you or mistreat you; in order for them to do that, they need your permission. By letting a jerk hold your beautiful heart with his dirty hands, you’re asking for it, sister!

Here’s a scenario for you: A jerk-off tells you that he doesn’t want a relationship, calls you at 2 AM after a night out, asks you to come over because he misses you; you go to his place, expecting a deep, long discussion — what on earth are you thinking? First of all, why pick up in the first place? Let him go booty call his mother. Second of all, the only deep, long thing you’ll be getting is his sausage. Yes, you’re the asshole, not him.

2.       What has happened to men these days?

What has happened to women these days? Where are the women that know what they want, have self-respect, and don’t settle for less than what they deserve? If you want a gentleman with old school manners, be a lady – you’ll definitely stand out in this new generation of vulgar skanks. I’m tired of women who go after men that are in relationships, or women that are so easy – thanks to you bitches, men now think they can have it all without having to make the slightest effort. Since boys will be boys, they think “Why settle for one baby mama when I got all dem hoes on my peen like glue?” (For the record, I don’t know any normal guy that talks like that, but if I ever meet one, I will punch him in the stomach.) Nevertheless, the message is still the same.

3.       Where are the men these days?

They’re everywhere – depending on what you’re looking for. If on the other hand you mean, where’s the generous billionaire who will love and honor me above anyone and anything, you simply must reset your priorities. Start by reading a book or something, because you’re clearly quite ignorant and haven’t a clue on what life is about outside your pretty little head.

And by the way…

This PSA is to all you women who call themselves “gangsta” and “heartbreaker” and talk like a female version of Snoop Dogg (or Lion or whatever his current name is): if ladies become extinct in 50 years, it’s because of white trash like you. You may not be a ho, but you most certainly look and act like one – and you know what they say, “if it talks like a duck and walks like a duck…,” well, you get the point. Stop complaining about “men these days” – you lost your right to be selective the day you started bragging about how “badass” you are. Go grow yourself a penis.

4.       Are all the good men taken or gay?

Obviously, married men are always more appealing than single ones. Why? Because 1) that guy is perceived as someone with enough good qualities to get the girl (face it boys, this is the sad reality); and 2) we all want what we can’t have (rephrased: no one wants what everyone else can get). This in no way encourages you to be a home wrecking ho. There are many great guys left; gay and straight – enough for both the queens and princesses – but obsessively trying to find the last of the good ones by “doing/saying all the right things” won’t get you anywhere. It will just make you more hopeless and desperate. Instead, try searching for yourself. When you find the real “you,” maybe he will too (since he’s probably wondering where all the good women are as well).

5.        “WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME?!”

Why? Because you’re single? Maybe you should start by asking yourself why that’s such a bad thing, then help yourself to a serving of GET OVER IT!

Almost two months ago, I was depressed about celebrating my 28th birthday, simply because it meant turning a year older – nothing more, nothing less. A “bright” girl I know gave me a pat on the shoulder then said, “Don’t worry – my sister got married at 29, after we had all lost hope. You still have a chance.”

BOOM!

My jaw dropped all the way down to her IQ level. I simply blinked at her in complete disbelief and focused on the unbearable humidity, in an eager attempt to distract myself with the one thing more offensive that the words she was uttering.

6.       Who am I going to marry? Will I ever get married?

Well, last time I checked my crystal ball, it said something about you marrying … no, being a moron.

This has to be my least favorite question of the bunch. I guess the fact that I tend to talk and philosophize a lot makes it seem that I hold the answers to the universe. Make no mistake, I am indeed a genius – but if I possessed psychic powers, I’d focus my energy on finding the next Google or Apple or Oprah to invest in – maybe a Gooprah: the answer to all women’s relationship problems.

7.       Why are there so many hoes?

Although I tend to use the word “ho” a lot, I don’t like it much; but it’s a briefer, more convenient way of saying: stupid, insecure, self-hating, fugly bitch that should be kicked in the face for being such a pain to exist with on the same planet. Anyway, cheap guys go for cheap girls – so let’s thank these hoes for existing – they act as a filter for other women by indentifying garbage and helping us avoid dirtying our hands with it.

Sorry boys, the “car fax” doesn’t just work on girls. You’re going to be judged by the girls you’ve loved, fucked and fondled for years to come … and no, being a “pimp” and a “man-whore” is not sexy anymore. That’s so 2001.Get with the times!

8.       Why do men love bitches?

Men love a smart woman who loves herself enough not to take shit from anyone. At the same time, she is honest, respectful and loving – to herself and others. This bitch is a lady – the hoes mentioned above are another genre of last year’s horse manure, who have given up on love, life and themselves. Please do not mistake the two.

At the end of the day, men are looking for the same thing as women — we’re all looking for that spark, and whoever denies it is a child. We all want a good challenge and an equally fulfilling trophy at the end. That is what the “game” is about (this is directed at you fools who pollute my ears with “I’m a hustler; a player; a gangsta.” STFU, please. I no longer have the patience for this at my age.

9.       Should I become a lesbian?

If you feel like it, sure. With the 7 to 1 female to male ratio in Lebanon, you have much higher chances of meeting someone. Just stop reminding me about how you’d be much happier and better off being a “lesbo” unless you want me to shove your face in the next woman’s coochie. In dire need of better conversations here, please – NEXT!

10.   Should I date that loser that was stalking me last year? Maybe he’s a nice guy…

Once again, if you think being single is that much of a punishment that you have to date an annoying worm that is mildly less annoying than a monkey with fleas, then maybe you shouldn’t be in a relationship – ever! Because of desperation, I have lost countless girlfriends to men who they’d previously referred to as, “If he were the last man on earth, and the last sheep died, I’d make love to a tree.” Of course, being the way I am, I never ceased to remind them of how horrible their future husband is; thus being exiled from their lives because I’m “unsupportive.”  I’d like to take this opportunity to wish a couple of girls (you know who you are) the following: I hope you make it to your two-year anniversary. If you don’t, you can go fuck a log or a branch or something because I’m all out of I told you so.

In a nutshell, the cure to the chronic disease known as “Singlitis” is the following:

Be a ho. Catch a playa!

Yes, as if.

PS. I will resort to physical violence and (I repeat) punch the next person who talks like that in front of me. I support good diction – and no, that doesn’t mean “dick friction” as so crudely entered in UrbanDictionary.com by this new generation of morons!

Horrible…

Seriously though, it all comes down to this:

If you want a man to respect you, respect yourself first. If you want a man to love you, love yourself first. If you want something, be clear about it and act clearly upon that. If you want a gentleman, be a LADY first!

Or, become a lesbian.

So, since I’m such a wise preacher, why am I single? Because I’m a pedophile that likes molesting little boys.

No.

Let’s just say my last boyfriend raised the bar for everyone else out there. He was a reminder that Prince Charming does exist; that perfect man that each of us is looking for, he really is out there. But in order to be able to give and receive so much happiness without letting it scare you half to death, you have to be ready for it. I was able to find that, but I wasn’t ready and neither was he. This is why I am currently focused on improving myself; because to get the best I can get, I need to be the best I can be first. Next time around, I will be ready; but in the meantime, I won’t be wasting my time complaining, feeling sorry for myself or settling for Mr. Mediocre. As Carrie Bradshaw (SJP) once said, I “refuse to settle for anything less than butterflies.”

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The Office Whoreo

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Disclaimer: This is neither educational nor motivational. It will add no value to your life; just like the three “working girls” I’m about to describe in a minute.

After an eight-month hiatus from blogging and four failed password attempts while signing into WordPress, I find myself unable to suppress my thoughts about the one topic I was never interested in writing about before: workplace politics.

Instead, I used to encourage my readers to be independent, career-building, goal-oriented members of society. One day, I decided to take my own brilliant advice and get a full-time job. This ranks pretty high up on my list of “Biggest Mistakes I’ve Ever Made. . . EVER!” Not only was I happier before that, but I was more successful in the sense that I was doing something I enjoyed and interacting with people I liked.

When working as a freelancer from the comfort of my own home, I never really have to deal with functioning in an office environment. I have my clients, call my own shots and am as free as a bird. And although I’d already caught a glimpse of the unmatched Lebanese professionalism a few times (and no, I do not mean that as a compliment), I would have never predicted what was in store for me within a workplace.

As an educated person with manners, I was still in shock months into my – then – new job because of the “people” I had to deal with on a daily basis. Now don’t get me wrong; I worked with many fantastic people who I’d even become friends with, but then you have the unavoidable “I’ve come to ruin your day” folk that would make even Buddha hostile.
I guess I should have sensed it from week one, when Ms. Whoreo walked into my office in a skin-tight shirt and no trousers. As I stared at what could have been her secret garden, she stuck two large pieces of bubble gum in her mouth and proceeded with her enlightening questions, “You’re the new girl right? Who brought you here?”

I wasn’t really sure what she meant, but I explained to her that my credentials got me the job. For the first and last time since I (unfortunately) met her, she paused her camel-like chewing and stared at me emptily as though I’d just told her that her shirt is too long. Unable to remain in a vertical position for too long, she plopped herself down on a chair beside me, stretching out her bare cellulite-covered legs as she showed me the color on her toe nails – a blinding fluorescent shade of urine, capable of lighting up the state of Texas . . . during a blackout . . . on a moonless night. Forcing myself to smile (versus throwing her out of my office), I explained to her that I was very busy. Oozing with charm, Whoreo yawned loud enough for the whales of the South Pacific Ocean to migrate here believing it is mating season in the Mediterranean Sea. “Hahaha – busy doing what? It’s Friday! I’m so bored I could fall asleep,” she retorted so intelligently as she furiously chewed her gum. She even proceeded to mock my English, repeating “eeerrrr” and “yo, yo” and “yeah man” after every syllable I uttered, making me want to apologize to her for being able to speak more than one language fluently. I knew then and there that I’d fallen in-hate with this creature, but I was intrigued.
How did she manage to find a job that didn’t involve pole-dancing? She clearly had no qualifications where her mouth wasn’t involved, and she couldn’t have possibly completed high school. After asking around about her, I found out she secures a certain lowly and irrelevant job position, but has more immunity than a board member. When/if present at her desk, she answered calls with a mouthful of food or gum, strenuously signed on received packages, and welcomed visitors with open arms (and legs).

In an attempt to locate the fax machine, I found myself at Whoreo’s desk. To my surprise, she was chatting with yet another Whoreo who goes by the same name! Whoreo II actually managed to use her one “skill” to climb the career ladder; although I’m sure even her own mother knew, since the third grade, that her little Whoreo of love is better off as a stripper. Thirty years later, she does in fact look like a stripper, wearing a long, see-through sweater that matches the color of her nipples, no trousers – of course – and knee high patent leather boots. I couldn’t help but stare at her hair, wondering what color it was supposed to be (I don’t think cat vomit qualifies as a shade). Also, was it a perm-gone-bad, had she just gotten laid, or did she forget to brush those tresses for twelve weeks? Whoreo II caught me staring at her bed hair and gave me a dirty look followed by a very sexual sound, which turned out to be her voice forming a sentence, “Can I help you?” As I unwillingly looked at her sarcastic facial expression, I wanted to tell her that I’m not too fond of massages with happy endings, but instead I turned over to the less of the two evils, and asked Whoreo I to fax something over for me. She held a finger up at me, gesturing for me to wait. She was surprisingly overwhelmed with work; there was an excruciatingly focused expression on her face as she rested her D-cups on her desk, held the telephone with her left hand and jotted down notes with the right. “We’ve placed a large order to this address countless times before,” she snapped at the person on the other side of the call. She then took the document I wanted to fax and condescendingly said, “Look at me doing five things at once. Anything else I can do for you?” Maybe I had misjudged her, maybe she really was a hardworking, multitasking savior of planet earth. Maybe she was just a very bad dresser that didn’t know trousers existed. Maybe . . . My thoughts were interrupted with her bellowing into the receiver, “No, no, no! We want three chicken sandwiches, three hamburgers and four boxes of fries! Pfffft!” This time I couldn’t hide my shock. As she bent over just enough for me to catch a glimpse of her uterus, I snatched my document back, forced myself to say thank you and stormed off.

Whoreo III, who also goes by the same freaking name, was constantly hounding every male employee in the company. Her failed attempts at flirtation were possibly because she looked like an electrocuted hamster that reeked of desperation. Not only did she hate me for no reason, but her and her gang of juvenile dimwits had the loudest voices, most sordid fashion sense, and were BFFs with queen vagina, Whoreo I. Funny enough, this clique of Slutology grads thought everyone envied them. Whoreo II actually pranced around repeatedly bragging about all her haters, and how everyone in the company was jealous of her.

HA-HA-HA . . . No.

No one hates you, Whoreo II. We just all deeply and utterly dislike you because you’re a slut. You look like one, talk like one and act like one; and frankly, your arrogant, pompous attitude doesn’t match your white trash appearance – not one bit – or the fact that you’re uneducated, untalented and rude. The reason we don’t talk to you is because we don’t want to be associated with the office skank. It’s as simple as that.

So why care, you may ask. Ladies and gentlemen, I am pissed off because there is a hierarchy based on common logic that’s been twisted and remolded into something very ugly. The likes of Whoreo I, for example, need to understand that they are at the bottom of the corporate food chain. It is simply unacceptable for a vagina-baring homewrecker to give orders to higher-ranking employees (whose work is actually vital to the company) and get away with it; this is workplace politics.

In today’s work environment, it disappoints me to see such a trend where capable people with excellent credentials sit jobless at home, while such sasquatches get paid to disrespect their coworkers, chew gum and gossip all day.

If Whoreo I, II or III ever read this, I’d like to say two things:

  1. Somewhere, there are three trees wasting their time supplying each of you with oxygen. Apologize to them.
  2. Wear trousers for God’s sake!

As for all the employers out there who are content with such staff, I’d like to congratulate them on hiring the only three living creatures, who when combined, possess the IQ of a table. Here’s to growing your business!

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Marriage: Driving Single Ladies to Madness

bride wars marriage driving single women to madness La Wlooo!!!...Marriage: Driving Single Ladies to Madness

Remaining loyal to tradition (and as per popular demand), it’s that time of the year again when I write up a wedding-bashing ‘La Wlooo’ entry to remind you all of how miserable, bitter, alone and envious I am. Wedding season – as every year – is just around the corner. I’m even more excited this year because I’m a year older and two of my closest friends will be tying the knot in two months. It doesn’t really help that I’m turning 27 in a month and that I have 3 single friends left; it also doesn’t help that I’m Lebanese, living in Lebanon and coming from possibly the most closed-minded, judgmental town in the country, where every girl who is unmarried after 25 (or 22) is deemed infertile, ineligible or a whore. Shame on me; I am 3 years away from 30, and what have I accomplished? Nothing! Who cares about my career or about my goals? I don’t have a ring, a husband or a child.

Pressure.

Inversely, another two of my closest friends just got out of serious relationships. Seeing as to how society (family, friends, acquaintances) is frowning upon their mishaps, they are feeling hopeless, insecure and miserable. What if they never get married? What if they’re the only single girls left on the planet? Frick on a stick, what if their entire universe falls apart, because according to society, they can’t be happy without a husband? Mind you, these two girls have got it all, but that doesn’t matter; they are just a couple of years away from hitting 30 – and we all know what that means . . .

Pressure.

I was even foolish enough to think I had a supportive family that wouldn’t mind if I stayed single forever! “Don’t get married unless you’re 100% madly in love and unless you know he’s the right one. Take your time; no need to rush,” has been replaced with, “if you become too independent, you’ll never want a husband. I want a grandchild before I die. You’re not getting any younger. Stop being so difficult. Grow up!”

Pressure.bride and groom marriage e1337013978915 La Wlooo!!!...Marriage: Driving Single Ladies to Madness

So, I would like to take this opportunity to speak on behalf of all single women (and myself of course) who are perfectly fine with not running a marathon to land a husband, plan a big wedding and pop a kid out before the world ends (a.k.a. hitting 30). I would like to address everyone out there who’s ever asked, “Why aren’t you married yet?” and “Aren’t you planning on getting married?” and “When are you planning on getting married?” Frankly I’ve had enough, and I would like to logically answer these mindboggling, life-altering, “first world problem” questions once and for all so that the Marriage Squad will get me (and the rest of these single ladies) off their marriage-obsessed backs!

First of all, single women do not have the plague or the privilege of owning a crystal ball that predicts when a decent guy with the right qualities and chemistry comes along; and frankly, until then, it wouldn’t be logical to set a date and plan a darn wedding – because only the mentally ill would that. If crystal balls existed and if I could predict the future, I’m sure frogs that turned into princes would exist too – not to mention “happily ever after”, men that chase women all the way to the airport, dying for love (like those two idiots, Romeo and Juliet) and sappy love declarations over the microphone for the whole world to hear.
Not only do the above NOT exist, but if they did, I wouldn’t want any of it. But, since society is ridiculous enough with its demands, requests and insensitive inquisitions, maybe we should all start kissing frogs and drinking poison because our prince didn’t appear out of smoke. Makes sense.

Second of all, if a potential frog-prince did appear, it doesn’t mean he should be “the one” simply because he arrived at the “right time.” There’s no such thing as the “right time” or the “right person” or the” right place.” This type of sh** shouldn’t be planned. Those who plan it as if it were a business merger probably deserve the divorce they’re going to inevitably undergo.
I can’t imagine how boring it must be for those who get married because the other person seems right on paper; a life void of passion and excitement because adults are expected to be “logical” since feelings are just for children.
Why settle for the next guy just because “it’s time”? That sounds so scary; it sounds like something a serial killer would say right before he slices his victim in half. Why create a childish, unrealistic fairytale and then try to find a logical candidate to play the part of “husband”? A woman who is immature enough to do that certainly doesn’t have a clue what marriage is all about – you know, those 50 years that come after the wedding – which is why divorce rates are increasing so rapidly.

Which brings me to my next point . . .

Third of all, did you people forget that the marriage is not about the wedding? That is one day – one overrated day of your existence (or not, if you get remarried). I’m glad my friends who are getting married are smart enough to understand that – but too bad I can’t say the same for so many others who put more effort into planning their wedding than keeping their marriage together.  It spans beyond that happy wedding photo; it’s hard work. I am sorry to disappoint, but I have never had a childhood fantasy about a wedding dress or big fancy marriage ceremony – simply because I do not understand its purpose; toiling away for months just to please hundreds of people who will end up complaining anyway. This does not make me “emotionally immature” as some would claim.
On the other hand, I do look forward to eventually growing old with someone; but still, just the thought of sharing your life with another human – even when you’re both at your worst – is exhausting enough. You will be sharing a bed, a bathroom, a home, offspring, possibly a dog, most likely a joint bank account . . . and I’m expected to  figure all this sh** out and bite the bullet before I form my next wrinkle? I don’t like hearing, “well you should already have this figured out at this age.” Not everyone is programmed the same way, so you can understand my frustration when people pretend to know everything about the universe because they are clinging onto 70-year-old ideologies with dear life.

Fourth of all, and for the real shocker: I don’t really care if I’m not getting married anytime soon! Okay, so there are many girls out there who would give an arm and a leg to find a guy and be married by 2013, but there are others as well who genuinely do-not-care. I’m not saying I want to become a lesbian and join the feminist movement, no, I’m saying that I’m in no rush whatsoever – regardless of my frightfully old, nay, prehistoric age and the increasing scarcity of good men. I don’t give a flying damn if all those “eligible bachelors” end up going for the younger generation of women just because they’re still “young and fresh.” Yes people, I’ve heard that before. I’m guessing they’re referring to their reproductive organs – not to mention that such a “man” is just a couple of years away from hitting a midlife crisis. Why would  anyone want to be with such an immature, ignorant, shallow caveman? Please go marry a fetus by all means!
Moreover, the fact that I’m not desperately trying to find a husband doesn’t mean that I’m doing nothing with my life; it doesn’t mean I’ve succumbed to inaction. I have plans of my own; they may not involve producing an infant or marrying one, but they are still significant plans to me. So I do not appreciate hearing, “what have you done with your life so far?” as if I’ve been locked up in my cabin in the woods for 30 years with my 9 cats and 100 extra kilos of fat. How offensive!

bride nonconventional gown La Wlooo!!!...Marriage: Driving Single Ladies to MadnessFinally, as much as I find extravagant weddings and marriage contracts ridiculous, I still respect these traditions and don’t mock anyone for going through with them. In return, I’d like the Marriage Squad to respect my ideologies and leave me the frick alone. “You are now bound by contract” is the scariest sh** you can tell a person. Talk about adding pressure and high expectations to a union. Well, here’s what I think; I think people are too insecure to trust that the other person won’t leave them if there’s nothing legally binding them to stick around. If a person does end up leaving, its a result of their insecurity and immaturity. Signing a paper won’t change that. Marriage should be a state of mind, not a paper. I’d rather be living with someone who’s faithful to me for 20 years and have his bastard child than be legally bound to a man who cheats on me left and right. Am I not making sense here?

Once again, I’m not against marriage. I’m not going to struggle to get into one or to avoid one. What the heck – if it happens, it happens. It’s a societal norm and tradition that’s been pushed down our throats till we gagged, so I guess most of us are bound to end up there. But until then, I wish to not engage in any further discussions about this subject with anyone. The next time I feel someone is being nosy and pushy with me, I will not hesitate to push them down a flight of stairs. Twice.
Also, to those girls who are so darn obsessed about getting married, please chill the f*** out a little. It’ll happen eventually – maybe next year, maybe in 15 years. And if it doesn’t, so freakin’ what? Enjoy living; there are other things to life.
And as for those who got dumped or are still hanging onto a jerk that treats them badly because they fear they won’t find anyone else, seriously I can’t listen to this crap anymore. Stop sulking over someone who was willing to let you go or someone who treats you badly. You need to be with a person who will know your worth, treat you the way you deserve to be treated and stick around through the rough patches (and vice versa of course) – unless you want to suffer for the rest of your existence just so you can please society. I can’t conform to a sexist society that finds it acceptable for men to marry at 45, while women have an expiry date at 30.

Congratulations and good luck to all of you who are getting married over the next few months. May the gods of fertility, love and matrimony shower you with blessings everyday of your lives together. Every single day. All 18250 of them.
Seriously though, congratulations on finding your special someone.

“Life is what happens to you while youre busy making other plans.” John Lennon

 

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How to be a Sexy Lebanese Gym Beast

gym muscle head La Wlooo!!!...How to be a Sexy Lebanese Gym Beast

After leading a sedentary lifestyle for almost a year, I decided to hit the gym again. Although certain body parts of mine may have forgotten what it felt like to work out, my brain certainly didn’t forget how much I detested my last two wazwaz-infested gyms. Their odors, stares and mannerisms ruined my mood and my workout. I even fought with a zouzou once, who dared to drink right out of my water bottle and denied it when I caught him red-handed. After that incident, I was traumatized and decided to pick my next gym very wisely to avoid retards who finger other people’s belongings (bottles) because they’re too cheap to buy stuff (bottles) of their own. After updating my gym wardrobe and gear, I picked the perfect gym for me in terms of price, location, equipment, and (lack of) wazawiz. I made sure to check every single machine and inspect them for sweat residue and/or lingering onion-like odors. I was very pleased with the results – and thus began my gym adventures in planet Lebanon.

Despite my thorough inspection around the gym, there are apparently certain things one cannot avoid – no matter what gym they go to. It’s as though there’s a manual out there on “How to be a Gym Beast”. Assuming such a manual should exist, I’d say it would go a little like this:

For Him:

Step #1: You must attack the gym every day for a couple of hours, focusing on one or two of your muscles. For example, your breasts and biceps – make sure your breasts are so big, to the extent that walking topless at the beach becomes offensive for anyone watching you. To make people even more uncomfortable, you should rub Vaseline or oil all over your chest and flex your pecs every few seconds. People may vomit, not because they’re disgusted, but because you’re a sexy panty-dropping beast.
After you’ve secured a pair of watermelons bigger than the radius of your head, congratulate yourself on completing the first

very muscular ugly.jpg La Wlooo!!!...How to be a Sexy Lebanese Gym Beast

step of becoming inhuman. This is not enough. Your biceps should be large to the extent that your arms remain in a horizontal position at all times. The final result should seem as though you inserted your girlfriend’s D-cup breast implants into your arms, or like a giant bumblebee bit you . . . twice.
Moving on to your waistline, please make sure to have a V-shaped waist. While your upper-half may not fit through the door, your bottom half should be tiny. Make sure your girlfriend’s jeans are big on you, and continuously brag to her about how you’re two waist sizes smaller than she is. That ought to get you laid on the spot, you masculine man you! Of course, with all the sh** you’re injecting into your system; your wiener should be tiny too. That doesn’t matter though, simply inject some more chemicals into your system, like bull Viagra, and you should be able to pleasure your woman all night long. For bonus points, lift her with one bicep and allow her to bounce off your flexing pectorals for a few minutes. It’s every woman’s dream – isn’t that why you’re so pumped up after all?

Step #2: There’s no point in looking like a beast if you’re not going to smell and act like one. Make sure you exude an aroma of onions that lingers around you constantly the minute you lift a dumbbell. Yummy!
You should look and smell sweaty from the minute you walk into the gym till way after you walk out. This has nothing to do with your intense training; it’s because of all those fat burners you’ve been taking. If you notice the cleaning lady shadowing you while frantically spraying air freshener and wiping every surface you touch, you know you’re on the right track to becoming a man-beast.

huge muscle guy 300x286 La Wlooo!!!...How to be a Sexy Lebanese Gym Beast

Walk like an ape; arms out, chest out. Frown, grunt, and always look like you’re about to release some gas. Notice how fellow gym-goers will dart out of your way as you approach them. It’s not because you’re stinky and filthy, it’s because they feel shamed by your godly presence. Keep grunting. Make sure it sounds like a cross between a wild boar and a gorilla. Imagine Pumba and King Kong fornicating and giving birth to a sexy beast. It would be you.
As you lift your weights, release sexual sounds, reminiscent of a beastly orgasm. To ensure this, if you can only lift 80 KGs, try lifting 180 instead. As your testicles explode, let out long, loud, obnoxious, agonized, tortured, sexual moans. Don’t forget to grunt simultaneously. Some man-beasts allow themselves to fart during this strenuous process. If that happens to you, notice that any girl around you will be looking at you with her mating call face (it’s a facial expression of horror and disgust).
Remember to sound like Tarzan every time you lift a kilo. It’s not annoying, distracting or unnecessary at all, especially if you keep doing it for 10 minutes nonstop. It’s very sexual. That way, the three mortified women in the corner can get a glimpse of what you’ll sound like when you’re suffocating them in bed.

Step #3: Despite your intense training, always allow for a 30-minute gap between each workout during which you can hit on chicks at the gym. The gym is a place to harass, irritate and pick up chicks. The machines are there just for show — instead of guy girl gym 300x204 La Wlooo!!!...How to be a Sexy Lebanese Gym Beastchairs and tables. If the gym were really a place for working out, you wouldn’t need to inject yourself with all those muscle-pumping chemicals. Instead, you’d actually lift a weight or two and perhaps work out a little. But, shrinking your wiener and turning into Shrek is a small price to pay if you want to waste hours of your life hitting on sexy gym girls, who look even better than they do at weddings. One way to do this is by constantly harassing her while she’s trying to work out by telling her how to properly do an exercise. It doesn’t matter that you don’t have a clue as to what you’re teaching her or that you have the wit, brains, and conversational skills of a 4 year old with Down syndrome, what matters is that she’s swooning over the intense odor of your armpits. Explain to her what exercises she needs to lift her gluteus maximus and enjoy as she pops her butt out for you to analyze it. At this very moment, you’ll know that Tarzan has met his Jane; Shrek has met his Fiona; King Kong has met his Ann . . . (grunt with delight)

For Her:

The Only Step: Looking the part is crucial when going to the gym. Make sure you buy the tightest clothes so that a) breasts are popping out, and b) camel toe is exposed (a.k.a. frontal wedgie). Your hair must be perfectly coiffed. Do not pull it back from your face. Why should you? It’s not like you’re going to sweat or anything. Make sure to apply a light foundation, blush,make up girls gym before after 240x300 La Wlooo!!!...How to be a Sexy Lebanese Gym Beast mascara, brow pencil, eye liner and shiny lip gloss for a natural look. Don’t worry about smudging your make up on your towel or looking like The Joker from Batman – you’re not going to sweat! Wear your most expensive watch, diamond earrings, bracelets, necklace(s), and any other item that insinuates you’re wealthy and unquestionably retarded.
Rule of thumb: Getting ready for a wedding and getting ready for the gym should require the same amount of time and effort.
Forget about headbands, towels and hair ties – the only two accessories you need are your phone and iPod. You will need these for those boring intervals of fake workouts, until you secure eye contact with one of the apes. To achieve this, make sure you look as dumb as possible, smiling and batting your lashes at every man-thing that grunts. While you’re on the treadmill, set the speed level to 2 or 3 max. Make sure that if you were walking any slower, you’d be walking backwards. To entertain yourself, watch some TV, listen to some music, or call up some of your clever friends for some intelligent conversation. You’ll know you’re doing it right when the girl next to you looks like she’s going to beat the b**** out of you. Don’t mind her; she’s not irritated by how stupid you are, she’s just jealous of your glorious, ‘unsweaty’ presence.
Chew gum at all times, with your mouth wide open because you’re so classy (hair, jewelry, makeup . . . La Classe) and because you never know when a guy might come and chat you up. If there are no available men, flirt with your trainer. Who cares if he looks like The Thing from The Fantastic Four. He’s giving your insecure character all the attention it needs.

Don’t pay any attention to losers like me who go to the gym strictly to work out and maintain a healthy lifestyle, while looking like a boring male coconut in gym attire, huffing and puffing to burn those calories – while enjoying it. Who does that?
And please pay no attention to haters like me who get irritated when dolled up b****es hog a machine for half an hour as they’re playing angry birds on their iPhone, or when ape-like creatures try chatting up antisocial girls like me to correct their workouts.
(No chimp, I correct your workouts — and I don’t want to know you.)
Long live physical hygiene!

“You have the body of a god . . . too bad it’s Buddha.”

 

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How to Look Like a Lebanese Bimbo

lebanese whore La Wlooo!!!...How to Look Like a Lebanese Bimbo

After being attacked countless times for making fun of Lebanese girls who love looking like hoes, I figured ho-defenders out there are too many to be conquered by merely one loser such as myself — but I’ll keep writing about these divine creatures, who I’m so envious of, because I’m so ugly and miserable. So many of my intelligent ho-loving readers, who love me so much, accuse me of being fat, ugly, unbearable, miserable, bitter and single; they have truly exposed me for who I really am. After weeping on my bathroom floor for weeks, I decided to emerge from my funk as an enlightened one that has come to terms with one truth: I am ugly, and prostitutes are ravishing; hence, I am jealous of them and want to look exactly like them, which is the only logical reason as to why I make fun of them.

If you’re ugly like me, you’ll need to start looking like a ho asap so you can find a gentleman who will appreciate your personality and want to marry you and have your babies one day.

Step 1: Admit the Truth
The first step towards self-improvement is admitting to yourself that you’re jealous of all hoes. Declare that since you were a little girl, you’ve always dreamed of growing up to be a sl**. Why would you want to be a lawyer, journalist, doctor, architect or anything boring like that when you can be a ho? It’s never too late to follow your dream. Be a ho so you can be appreciated for what truly counts: your brains!
Stop making fun of hoes and admit that you’re a hater, because real beauty is looking like a $2 h**ker. These hoes aren’t bad people. All they want is to find a man of “quality” to spend on them (a.k.a. a husband), so they dress the part.

lebanese prostitute La Wlooo!!!...How to Look Like a Lebanese Bimbo

rest a cross between your breasts…

Step 2: Dress to Impress
There’s no point in wearing underwear if you’re not going to show it, so make sure 85% of your cleavage is out and that only 15% of your bum is covered.
When attending a classy event, make sure to wear a dress that reveals your legs, back, chest, stomach, arms and maybe your v*gina. Make sure that your dress is so tight that your lungs would collapse after one hour, which is more than enough time to meet your future husband – granted that you’re wearing a pair of elegant h**ker heels. They have been proven to help quality women find quality husbands since 1970. For extra points, make sure your dress comes in leather or in latex fabric, and in flashy colors like red or hot pink. Not into colors? Wear full-on animal print. Zebra and leopard combos are to die for! Your future husband will feel that you’re the powerful hunter and he’s the helpless prey – and isn’t that every man’s dream? Make sure to pounce on as many men as possible to secure at least one or five. Men love a woman who is promiscuous.
Since hoes go out during the day as well, there’s a proper dress code every woman must abide during the daytime. Make sure to wear as much makeup and perfume as possible so that the daylight emphasizes your Edward Cullen face and raccoon eyes. Think of perfume as part of your mating ritual, luring in husbands from around Lebanon and beyond. With a strong enough perfume, you may even attract beaus from Germany. Stick to scents that will make you smell like a baby wh**e.

Step 3: Draw on a New Face

lebanese ho e1334705602446 La Wlooo!!!...How to Look Like a Lebanese Bimbo

et voila . . . a vampire wh**e

The key here is to make sure none of your facial skin shows by the time you’re done. You have three looks to aim for: a mime, a clown or backstage makeup (think: Black Swan sans feathers).
Make sure you start by painting a very light foundation all over your face. You’ll know you’ve got the right shade when your face and neck are two completely different colors. Your face should be a whitish-pink or something similar to your kitchen wall. Continue by coloring big black circles around your eyes. Don’t stop until you look like you’ve been kneed in the face twice. After you’re done applying the elegant eye shadow, glue on some super long fake lashes. Make sure they’re long enough to poke your future husband’s eye out. Move on to painting on your eyebrows.
Make sure the result looks like this: ^  ^ or \  /
When you’re done, you should look like Lucifer.If there’s a hint of innocence or simplicity left on your face, you’ll know you’ve done something wrong. Make sure each eyebrow is as black as charcoal. For perfect results, wax off your real eyebrows. If your eyebrows are made from hair, it’s simply unnatural. For captivating eyes, wear the fakest green contact lenses that make your eyes pop right out of your face.
For your finishing touches, make sure to paint your lips blood red and draw a beauty mole on your chin or above your lip. Make sure it looks fake; perfectly round and black, like a speck of bird poop. Once done, take a look at the mirror –you should look like a vampire wh**e.

lebanese duck face e1334705762315 La Wlooo!!!...How to Look Like a Lebanese Bimbo

I pout when I poo too

Step 3: Intensify your Mannerisms
Buy a year’s supply of bubblegum. Chew it all the time with an open mouth, even when you’re sleeping. Make sure to blow big bubbles and laugh as high as possible (think: Nanny Fran) for the perfect results. Suck on your finger whenever needed. For example, if someone asks you for directions, wink and suck on your finger. If someone asks you how much you charge per hour, suck the finger while giving him a piece of your mind!
Your facial expression should always say one of the following:
1) I pout even when I’m fast asleep. As for my eyebrows, I’m not surprised . . . they’re just shaped that way . . . naturally.
2) I am so tired and sexual all at once.
When you go out dancing, make sure to rub your butt on every strange man standing nearby. As you do this, touch yourself while chewing gum and sucking your finger simultaneously. Once again, if you’re wearing those feminine h**ker heels, the stranger you’re rubbing up against will marry you within weeks.
If men look at you or hit on you as if you’re a ho, say “yiiiiii? Ba3ed na2iss!” although you are a ho, no one is allowed to treat you like one. You should be appreciated for your brain and personality.

Step 4: Work Like a Boss!
Your appearance should in no way allow for a guy to grab your right breast. He should buy you a car first, after which he can grab both your breasts and then some. Let him earn your sexual favors. No, that does not make you a sl**, it makes you a smart businesswoman. When people ask you what you do for a living, say you work in trade or customer services. There’s no need for you to have a regular job like the rest of us losers. You have a sugar daddy to support you, because he appreciates your witty conversation. He will pay your bills and buy you things so that you reward him with sex. No, you are not a prostitute.
If, God forbid, you have a job, you should make it clear to your employee and customers that you do not work for them! You are not there to work! Make this clear by not doing a thing all day. When you’re asked to do something, stick your fake nails out in disbelief and say, “tsu2! Yiiiiii….pffffff….ma maaoul!” how dare they ask you to do the job that you’re getting paid to do? How dare they? Your pride and dignity come before anything, so you always need to make it clear that you’re stooping below your high level of ho-ness by working in something legit. How embarrassing and disappointing. Who needs high school, basic math or spelling when you are so darn hot!

Step 5: Talk Like you’re Trapping Poo
Now that you’ve gotten steps 1 through 4 under your belt, you must carry the right attitude with you. It’s not enough to look, smell, dance and think like a ho, you must talk like one too. Make sure to extend every vowel so that it sounds like you’re having a constipated orgasm. It’s not annoying, it’s sexy. Make a lot of “aaaahhhhh” sounds because they are like a mating call for potential husbands. No, men will not think you’re a vulgar nymphomaniac who’s slept with half the planet. They’ll see you as the mother of their unborn babies.

I can now seek love and acceptance from all ho-lovers and defenders of the world, because my life would make no sense at all without their approval.

 “The awkward moment when your sarcasm is so advanced that people actually think you are stupid.”

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Live From Lagossia: The Bribing, Motorcycle-Buying Sugar Mama

Assuming that you read my previous blog entry about life in Lagos, I will skip the intro and go straight to the point. Just in case you didn’t, go read it now or get off my blog . . . deserter.

So, living in Lagos is lovely – I promise – but it’s no place to be a princess in her tower waiting for her prince to rescue her by climbing up her long silky hair. Not only will the humidity levels turn your shiny, sleek hair into a bird’s nest, but at least one person will see that long hair of yours hanging where it doesn’t belong, cut it up into a thousand pieces, and sell it for cheap in the market (where do you think the term “black market” originated from? Okay, now I’m lying).
Anyway, no prince will have the time to save you, because he’s too busy running a kingdom (yes, men here actually work and don’t rely on their fathers to spend on the both of you); plus he has no time for headache-inducing cry babies.
Long story short, the only princess you should be using as a reference is Snow White, who had to work like a man, live in a forest, and be wary of crooks that are out to get her.

I know many ladies who moved here to work with their families, and as a result, they make more money than most men do in Lebanon and work four times as hard. This kind of financial success and independence creates a transformation in a person’s behavior, a transformation unknown to most “spend every dollar I have on booze” Lebanese folk.

I had a funny encounter with an old friend of mine who I’ve known as a diva-princess for as long as I can remember. She’s transformed into a multifunctional horse that has an identity crisis – she can’t decide if she’s man or woman, white or black, princess or housekeeper. Since she’s quite the character, she will be making many appearances in my upcoming entries. Allow me to demonstrate:

That’s a perfectly normal discussion here, and she couldn’t understand why I found it so funny. I kept imagining her in a skimpy mama clause outfit, carrying a dirt bike in her arms, and happily handing it over to her driver (with Beatles’ music playing in the background).
Of course in Lagos, this act of kindness and generosity can easily be misinterpreted as weakness and susceptibility. As expected, the chauffeur then proceeded to ask her for new tires, which she was automatically expected to pay for. I listened as she went ape sh** on him, telling him something about a motorcycle. In seconds, my calm and collected friend turned into a raging lunatic. I couldn’t understand much from the discussion, except for the word “tires” that kept being repeated. I still don’t know if she ended up paying for those tires, but I do know she won’t be buying motorcycles for anyone anytime soon.

This very same woman is currently in the kitchen making lunch as her cook watches with a dumbfounded expression on his face, pretending not to understand a single thing she’s doing. She asks him for a spoon, he brings her a fork. She asks him to pour oil on the pan, he floods it with water. She asks him for a tray, he brings her a porcelain plate. Only in Nigeria will a cook get away with pretending he doesn’t know how to cook . . . and probably walk away with a new motorcycle, or maybe even a car (and possibly some hidden culinary skills). Brain death; it gets sh** done.

Mind you, since I’m still new to all of this, my weak and fragile heart constantly urges me to give out money. It’s all I do, day in day out. I can’t even count how many hundreds of dollars I’ve given out as “charity.” In civilized countries, this is called “bribing.” Here, it’s called “daily living.” For the time being, I’m known as the European (possibly Russian) white chick that smiles at everyone and hands out money to anyone that blinks. Have I become a briber? Or worse, a sugar mama? Or even worse, St. Theresa?! Only time will tell . . .

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Live From Lagossia: The Weeping Goat Chronicles

Image

Photo Courtesy of Rosie Diwan (a.k.a. The Ekiti-Venturer)

Those of you who know me well should already be aware that I grew up in West Africa during the first half of my life, specifically in a country called Nigeria. I lived in Port Harcourt long enough to make me nostalgic of all things African. You wouldn’t know unless you’ve lived here.

Making it a point to return at least once a year to maintain my peculiar bonds with this country, I ended up spending several weeks in rainy Lagos while others basked in the warm summer sun; be it in Beirut or the South of Greece/France/Italy. This may sound very bizarre to you, but I’m as happy as a clam.

I’ve managed to find an even more underdeveloped and corrupt country than Lebanon to sneak away to, and surprisingly discovered “bliss” when I realized I escaped every fake and empty-headed person I know, hence reducing my stress and anger levels by 70%. The simplicity of Africa is unparalleled and somewhat addictive; so on a positive note, I’ve managed to temporarily detach myself from my high heels and mascara and still manage to feel good. On a not-so-positive note, I’ve successfully retained 3 kilos of water thanks to the tropical climate and the high-sodium drinking water *sob* but it’s a small price to pay for the temporary “bliss” that I accidentally stumbled upon in third-world Africa.

Of course, drama never ceases to follow me wherever I go, so I’ve decided to share my interesting daily encounters with you since the days here are nice, long and slow. Bear in mind that I’m convinced I’m still Nigerian at heart, but the reality has proven to be nothing as such. Even after having lived here for over a decade, I still get shocked in situations that my Nigeria-residing friends find completely normal. These are the stories I’ll be sharing with you for a limited time only, in my new “Live From Lagossia” daily entries.

So, I was over at a friend’s house for lunch, and as I was enjoying the delicious home-cooked meal, I heard very odd screams echoing from the backyard. At first, I thought a poor woman was getting raped. Naturally, that was a bit farfetched, so I stood up and shouted, “Armed robbers! Armed robbers!” As farfetched as this may sound, it is actually quite normal and tends to occur on a frequent basis; so it doesn’t really come as a shock to anyone at a dinner party when someone says, “so on my way back from work the other day, we were halted by a policeman that turned out to be an armed robber. He stole all my cash and my wife’s watch. I love the food by the way, it’s delicious.” I am usually the only one with my jaw dropped and my eyes wide open in disbelief.
Back to my story; the screams were that of a poor little goat that was soon-to-be dinner. As I saw three domestic workers run frantically towards it, I was informed that our little goat had escaped and was darting towards the gate. As I stood there mortified with tears in my eyes, I couldn’t fathom how my friends continued eating as though this was completely normal. I wondered if PETA would be okay with this goat-skinning fiasco and wondered if I’d ever be able to eat goat again. No and NO! Oh my goodness, how could someone slaughter a helpless little goat like that and still have the heart (and stomach) to devour it. I stopped eating my lunch right then and there as my friends laughed at my “naïve European mentality” — because witnessing goat slaughter is completely normal behavior! I immediately felt my stress levels elevate back to Lebanon-mode; except this time, it was a result of real animals (goats) and not pseudo-animals (Lebanese people).

Three hours later, I watched some TV in horror as I smelled the goat roasting on the grill outside at the neighbors’ house. I was embarrassed to express my sadness any further because of all the names my friends were calling me (European; naïve . . . white…)

Meanwhile, a friend of mine traveling 5 hours away from the main city of Lagos to a “bush area” called Ekiti, sent me a picture of another poor little goat with a tin can attached to its face! When – naturally – I responded in gasping horror to this photo, she proceeded by explaining the following, “In this village, every household owns a goat as a pet. This would be the equivalent of a traditional Lebanese family owning a little Bichon Frisé or cute little lulu dog. These goats have their very own leashes and are trained to return home after a long day of wandering around eating neighboring farmers’ crops.”
I felt as though i was listening to an infomercial being narrated by a smiling lady. Similarly, this was a real explanation from a dear friend of mine who is well-traveled, educated, rational, logical and intelligent . . . who after many years of venturing to Ekiti, now finds this completely normal.
So basically, our little tin-faced friend was being punished for eating too much of the neighbor’s crops. My Ekiti-venturing friend continues, “It goes as far as these goat-owners taking their fully grown goats to the market and trading them in for another fully grown goat to eat as a family meal; only because they cannot bear to eat the ones they brought up themselves.”
I have no words; none whatsoever!

I also recently found out that a goat was temporarily residing at the compound where I’m currently living for the time being. It stayed here for weeks, grazing on the grass as people who were sitting by the pool wondered what the heck that goat was doing there. According to legend, the goat was a gift to someone living in the compound, who was supposed to slaughter it for dinner, except he didn’t have the heart to do it so he simply kept it there. One of the residents, whose balcony overlooked the lawn on which the goat spent its afternoons grazing, was uncomfortable with the goat’s presence. After his complaints were heard, the goat was relocated to a neighboring residence where it became the “guard dog” of the building. The goat owner proudly referred to it as his “pet.” until it was eventually butchered into tiny little brochettes. Yes, it’s dead now, like every other goat in the country.

As I write this entry, my friends are ganging up against me, calling me “Goat” and planning on how to glue a tin of Nido to my face. I wonder, is this because I talk too much, eat too much, or is it because I’ve unveiled the goat-killing conspiracy of Nigeria? Only time will tell . . .

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