Merciless dickheads seem to be rewarded for being mercilessly dickish.

I am probably going to die alone. Sure there might be a few other people ensnared before being horribly disappointed and leaving, but ultimately, probably alone. Just me and the guy who switches off the machine, or the cleaner who inadvertently unplugs it. Ordinarily I would say that this impending, almost certain solitude will be down to my social deformities, unique distaste for the things all people do and my inability to actually approach girls of any interest to me. Recently though I think it might not be me, or rather it is, but not just me.

It is a widely acknowledged almost-fact that women like bastards. Bastards with nice haircuts, cars and a flair for dressing themselves in an eye catching manner, but bastards none the less. I have often been referred to as a bastard and yet I can’t help but notice the complete lack of sex I am having, so it seems that either I am the wrong type of bastard or that the rule is not a rule at all. However the real problem, as I see it, is a mistake in people’s definition of bastard.

I don’t cheat, barely lie – not about big things like sexual preferences, or little things like how that dress does in fact make you look fat, though occasionally I’ll allow a bit of untruth inbetween – and I don’t create unnecessary drama. It would appear that this is the problem, as men who tick all three of those boxes seem to do incredibly, mind meltingly well with the opposite sex. This leaves me most perplexed. Perplexed you see because I still get branded as a meany, a cruel, cold man and this can be attributed to being overly honest. Apparently when someone asks you what you think, or what you’d like, or how you’re feeling the last thing they actually want is to know what you think, would like to do and at no point would they be interested in knowing how you are. You selfish bastard.

No. What you should be doing, what I should be doing, is lying. You’ll do whatever, you like what they do luckily, and you feel just fine. Don’t over complicate by having an opinion, knowing yourself and being keen that they know you too. Don’t.

To do these things will grant you bastard status: unsexy. You don’t want that, obviously. You want to not die on your own, yeah? So you want to achieve bastard status: sexy and complicated. You can do this man, you can, just go against everything that seems good and right. Take your conscience and smush it under your heels. It may help you to imagine you are someone else, to perhaps pick a fantasy career. One totally at random that in no way am I suggesting is dominated by horrible bastards. Say, football player. Yes that’ll do.

So you’re a professional football player. Well done. You are fantastically rewarded for your world saving ability to kick a sphere toward targets of varying size. You are loved. You have some how managed to convince the world that despite your hideous hair, ape man vocabulary, penchant for violence and complete inability to keep anything in proportion, you are a desirable person. Again, well done. You have smashed up expensive sports cars whilst driving drunk. You have beaten someone up in or outside a night club. You have bellowed abuse at the very people who make you possible. You have, inconceivably, managed to get a lovely, independent, financially secure, super model, pop singing girlfriend. I shall say well done again, but understand that on the inside I am kicking you in the balls.

All is well, so there is only one thing to do. Sleep with as many other people as you can, most of them should probably look almost identical to your girlfriend so you don’t get confused. You’re a football star, not a nuclear physician. You should do this for as long as you can and then, when you get caught you should blame anything you can but yourself. Maybe don’t even apologise. If you get forgiven, which you will because you’re a very important person, you should definitely do it again. Probably forgive you again, won’t she? Won’t everyone? Yes, they probably will, because people seem to have mistaken you for some sort of endangered big cat. They sit and watch you devouring innocent fools from afar but do nothing. You can’t be angry at a lion for eating a gazelle, it’s what they do. And they do look magnificent with their flowing manes and their collar turned up.

Ok, so this may be slightly unfair to football players. Some football players. There are a few who are absolutely fine, I’m sure. There are other professions also full of arse holes but they didn’t serve my purpose as easily or as well. Also I’m not a football fan so it seemed an easy shot, pardon the pun. Point is merciless dickheads seem to be able to be mercilessly dickish and get away with it again and again. We even seem to reward them. We look up to them, envy them, we want to be them, only with less of the being a dickhead obviously. Sadly you can’t have one without the other, you can’t play the flash twat without being flash, and naturally, a twat.
I digress somewhat. Basically if you’re a lady type you are free to choose. You can have blag, blah, trend, cash and status. You can be with the sort of lad who plays the game, not the beautiful game as people insist on calling football, but a game they call life. You will be a piece, like the pewter Monopoly dog, to be upgraded, traded and displayed. You can’t fix him or tame him, he doesn’t want to be and you would probably tire of him if you succeeded, after all what will you do when you’re left with a nice guy? You might be fine of course, I am clearly making sweeping generalisations, that’s kind of what I do. What you can’t do is moan when the bloody obvious happens. What you definitely can’t do is hold onto any sympathy if you forgive and pretend to forget. Don’t take a cheater back, that is superbly thick. If you do, don’t be surprised when it happens again. Your actions have told him you don’t really mind.

So then, I am going to die alone. Fine. Just don’t try to tell me I’m a bastard when I’m clearly not, or if I am I’m a minor one. More of a git or a swine. Maybe a rogue. I like rogue. And don’t try to excuse the actual big league bastards, or dress them up as misunderstood, or dashing anti heroes. They aren’t. They’re massive bastards. I’m not sure where this came from, I’m not sure how it became kind of alright to be one. I’m not sure how they seem so attractive to the ladies. I just know they are. Bastards.

Anyway, I think I’ve made my point. By the way you look lovely tonight, shall we order?

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