by Adam Carolla
WOMEN IN THE WORKPLACE
This emotionality is why women make seventy cents for every dollar we earn. (Are they pissed because they’re making less or because they’re getting paid in change?) One of the many reasons women are better at home with the kids than at the workplace is because they have something called feelings. We all know women who have cried at work. I’ve never seen a dude cry at work. Except that Man Show wrap party when a six-foot sub rolled off the board as they were carrying it in. It was like the Trail of Tears, but with white guys. On the other hand, when the kid brings home a piece of craft paper with some elbow macaroni glued to it in the shape of a pony, no dad has ever ripped it out of their hand and said, “This needs to go to the framing shop tonight.” You see, we’re better at work, and they’re better at Scotch-taping horses made of elbow macaroni to refrigerator doors. It’s just good science.
And no man has ever sued over a “hostile work environment.” This soul-sucking nonissue takes up our time and money because anybody, especially if they have been victimized in the past, can claim sexual harassment. And of course that is the siren song of the lawyer. Anybody can sue for sexual harassment because it is completely subjective, which means the company’s asshole lawyers have to make everyone jump through a bunch of bullshit hoops to protect the company from the “victim’s” asshole lawyers.
Let me give you an example. Every workplace has a “cool guy” and a “creepy guy.” Let’s call the cool guy Adam. He’s one of those guys where you just dig his vibe. The men in the office would like to talk cars, sports, or chicks with him over a beer. The women in the office will laugh at all his jokes and will give him every detail of their last date. “Don’t worry, ladies, I’m not going to make a move. And if I did, you’d love it.” Every office also has a “creepy guy.” Let’s call him [your name here]. Uncomfortable in his own skin, awkward. Picture the neighbor in the eighties movie who shows up to the blind chick’s apartment and offers to set up her VCR while her Seeing Eye dog goes nuts and she says, “That’s funny. Rondo never barks at anyone.” Now here’s the scenario. The attractive receptionist comes in a few minutes late on a Monday morning wearing tight new jeans. Cool Guy comments, “Somebody’s been working out.” She replies, “Oh, it’s just the jeans.” Cool Guy looks her up and down and says, “You do have good genes.” She laughs and says, “We’re doing a shot at the Christmas party.” Now, same scenario with Creepy Guy. Receptionist walks in, Creepy Guy says, “Hey Kelly, nice jeans.” And she marches straight off to Human Resources to file a report. This can’t be taught in any sexual-harassment seminar because the women themselves don’t even know it.
When it comes to these seminars, why isn’t there more outrage? How many hours of our lives are squandered with this shit? Why are we being treated like criminals? You wouldn’t need to attend a drug and alcohol counseling class if you had no history of DUI. I’ve been employed since I worked at McDonald’s when I was fifteen and a half. Thirty years in the workforce and I have zero sexual-harassment claims against me. So with thirty years with no strikes, I still need to throw away two hours of my life to satisfy corporate lawyers? And I’m an atheist, so my life is more valuable than yours. You guys are going to have a rich, fulfilling afterlife, whereas I’m going to spend eternity in a pine box with a bunch of worms trying to stuff themselves into my ass like frat boys into a telephone booth. And here’s what life comes down to—not how many years you live, but how many of those years are filled with bullshit that doesn’t amount to anything to satisfy the requirements of some dickhead you’ll never get the pleasure of punching in the face. If I told you you were going to live to a hundred, you’d say, “Awesome.” If I told you you were going to live to a hundred but fifty of those years are going to be spent taking off your shoes at airports, sitting at sobriety checkpoints along the 405, and attending sexual-harassment seminars, you’d say, “Just kill me now.” Isn’t this what we’re doing to ourselves? I think we should no longer keep track of our human life in years, but rather in hours. Your average person has six hundred thousand hours on this planet, and you want me to waste three of mine listening to some fat postmenopausal cunt talking about something that’s never happened to her?
I have no prior history with sexual harassment, thus no need for this lecture. Should I also head down to the hospital for some prenatal care and lactation counseling? Everyone should stand up and refuse to go to these things. And if they fire you, hit them with a wrongful-termination lawsuit. Pit your lawyers against their lawyers in some dickhead version of Thunderdome. Because that’s who to blame for this, the lawyers. As if these seminars have prevented one single lawsuit. In fact, I’d love to see the statistics on sexual harassment lawsuits filed. I guarantee there were ten times as many after these corporate-sponsored time rapings began. All the information they cram up your ass falls into one of two categories: A) No duh, or B) Not going to do that. I’m not and never was going to make the intern blow me for a promotion, but I am going to forward the e-mail link to the celebrity sex tape. Fuck you. What are you going to do about it?
You know a group that doesn’t have to worry about being sexually harassed nowadays? Nurses. Remember in the seventies, in every episode of Three’s Company the neighbor Larry would hook up with a hot stewardess or a hot nurse? But look around. In the reality of 2010, stewardesses can barely back their fat asses down the aisle for the beverage service, and nurses are in worse shape than the people they’re treating. Nurses are a good eighty to a hundred pounds heavier than the average person. They’re sweating white country gravy while lecturing you about your cholesterol. These women are so fat that their skin color changes and you can’t tell what race they are. Their ethnicity changes to fat. It’s either those chicks or the big-muscled veiny gay guy. What happened to the hot nurses in the candy striper outfit? The scrubs these nurses are wearing now are why they’re fat. They have room to expand. These scrubs are essentially a painter’s tarp with a back pocket and a drawstring. You know how they say a fish will get as big as the bowl? These scrubs are the Pacific Ocean. It’s the black-bouncer-in-the-velour-sweatsuit effect. Put that guy in a pair of tight Daisy Dukes, I guarantee he puts down the hoagie. If you put him in a sweatsuit, he’ll just fill it out. I can solve America’s obesity problem right now. From here on out, every Friday is Wear Your Swimsuit to Work Day.
And don’t let the profession affect how hot you think a girl is. There are women who look good for their profession. That doesn’t mean they’re hot. Danica Patrick is hot … for an Indy driver. She’s a 7. If she were hosting at Nobu, you wouldn’t give her a second look. The “sexy” female athlete is an interesting phenomenon. I was watching some Entertainment Tonight–type show that was profiling “Hotties of the Winter Olympics.” They put the speed skaters and cross-country skiers in Victoria’s Secret underwear and snow mukluks. Then as they panned up their bodies, I was thinking, Hey, nice legs, good abs, she’s hot. But when they got up to their faces, I saw that they were just a little bit off. It’s sad, but they scrolled up the hot, toned bodies and the faces had a dusting of Picasso. The eyes were too close together, or the nose was a little crooked. Then it all made sense. I figured out why she’s an Olympic-caliber athlete: If it were Heidi Klum’s face at the top of that body, there’s no fucking way she’d ever get up for one five A.M. workout. Hot chicks don’t have that gene. So to all the wannabe Olympic moms and dads out there, if you want your little girl to be a champion, you’re one well-placed snow shovel to the face away from the gold.
There has been a pleasant uptick in hot teachers having sex with their students. Where were these women when I was at Walter Reed Middle School? How come kids now get Debra LaFave and I got Mrs. Wolk, who literally had a hygiene problem? I love the idiots who complain about the double standard and say we should punish these female teachers the same as we would male teachers. If the male gym coach has sex with the fifteen-year-old girl, she will be mentally and emotionally scarred for life. The only
damage to a fifteen-year-old boy who nails the music teacher after class is carpal tunnel from getting high-fived by his buddies. Just like my grandfather used to say, “If you can beat off to it afterward, it’s not a crime.” This is another misguided attempt to treat the genders as if there are no differences. Little Billy who bangs the female teacher is gonna be all right. Little Suzie will end up working the pole at Olympic Gardens and won’t be going by the name Suzie.
STRIPPER NAMES
Stripper names are out of control. Remember back in the day when you’d go to a strip club and the stripper was named Candy? You knew her real name was like Shelly or Brenda, but Candy sounded sexier. Now when you go to a strip club, you ask the stripper her name and she’ll say Charisma, Allure, or Emotion. They used to use sexy names, but now they’re just making shit up. “I’m gonna go to the champagne room with Cubic Zirconia.” And you feel like an asshole because you have to use it. “Would you care for another Coke Zero and Captain Morgan, Fancia?”
And when they ask for your name, you always give them your real name, Jason. We should be the ones giving the fake names. I feel like we’ve got more to lose. You’re at an Outback Steakhouse with the missus celebrating your twelfth anniversary, and here comes a drunken Charisma: “Jason, I didn’t recognize you with your fly up. Don’t you remember me? From Bob’s Classy Lady? You bought me thirteen hundred dollars’ worth of Champale!”
What would be the harm in them giving us their real name? Oh, your name is Nancy? Let the stalking begin! And would you really need to stalk someone who works in their underpants at a place that never closes? I’m just saying, why bother stalking Julia Roberts if you could show up at her work, pop in a Warrant CD, give her twenty bucks, and she’d get naked and hop on your lap?
Fellas, from now on we start using fake names. Next time you go to Jumbo’s Clown Room and the stripper says, “I’m Essence, what’s your name, honey?” you say, “I’m Colonel Duke LaCross. How’s it feel, bitch?”
THINGS CHICKS ARE INTO
Chicks are into fashion. My wife watches those Project Runway–type shows where the model is strutting down the catwalk and Rachel Zoe is going, “Oh my God, Oh my God” about the dress. Lynette will give me the stink-eye because I say to the TV, “I could do that. I could put that dress together. I wouldn’t want to put that dress together, but if you gave me a sewing machine and some taffeta, I could knock that shit out. Easily.” It’s true. Making a car or being an architect is much more difficult than fashion, but everybody goes nuts for these fairies.
Speaking of dresses, let’s break down the myth of the thirty-five-hundred-dollar wedding dress. Every woman pulls this shit on her soon-to-be husband. Inevitably he’ll complain about the cost of a dress that she is only going to wear once, and she’ll reply that it will be an heirloom and that her daughter will wear it on her wedding day. Really? Then why aren’t you wearing your mom’s dress? You know she pulled the same shit on your dad in 1975, right? And with fashions going out of style from year to year and season to season, what are the chances that the burnt-orange, crushed velvet shower curtain your mom wore in the mid-seventies is going to be all the rage thirty or forty years later?
And what’s with women and the dress they can wear only once? My wife will be like, “I wore that to Howard Stern’s wedding—I can’t be seen in it again.” First off, I don’t remember the dress you wore to Howard Stern’s wedding, and everyone else there was shit-faced. You’re the only one who knows you wore that dress. Second, this is insanity. You just paid nine hundred dollars for three yards of cloth and sequins that you think the queen from Project Runway made, but that was really stitched together by some husky Nicaraguan mother of five for a quarter an hour. The true cost of this dress is $38.50, but you’re dipping into the kids’ college fund to buy it because the nearly identical dress that was good two months ago is now expired. This is the argument I would make to all the feminists who get pissed when someone points out that men are better at math than women. Crunch those numbers. Nine hundred dollars for a dress you’re going to wear once, or the seventy-five bucks we pay to rent a tux?
And women won’t fill us in on what a size-14 dress is versus a size-2 dress. It’s their own little secret language, so we’re constantly confused. Why can’t they just use inches like we do? For us it’s easy: If a guy has a thirty-two-inch waist, he’s slim; if he’s got a fifty-five-inch waist, he’s a lard ass. If a chick is a size 8, I have no idea if she’s Kate Moss or Kate Smith. They’re doing that to keep us off guard. It’s sort of like what Europe does with the metric system. I heard an interesting study once. Plus-size models are usually size 12 through 14, and the average woman is size 14. So the average woman walking around the United States is at the upper end of what we would call a plus-size model, except she’s got an ugly face.
Of course, they wouldn’t want to be models anyway. These girls always say that they didn’t want to get into modeling—someone signed them up for the International Model Search competition, or they went along with a friend who was auditioning for a Maybelline campaign and the casting agent pointed at them instead. They’ll say anything but admit they looked into the mirror on their fifteenth birthday and saw a piping-hot chick staring back and thought, I could really cash in on this great genetic hand that was dealt to me. The reason you know their story is bullshit is because if they wanted to stay in school and become veterinarians, they would have done it. There’s no federal mandate that says: All hot chicks must model. And of course the ugly male version of this is the stand-up comic. He can’t admit he thinks he’s the funniest motherfucker on the planet, so when you ask him how he got into comedy, he says he went out to a comedy club and some friends “pushed him up onstage.” What kind of club is this where you can take a guy who’s never held a microphone in his life, push him up onstage, and have him do a set? The few times I’ve seen a guy take the stage who wasn’t supposed to be on it he was immediately dragged off it by a large Samoan man. And can’t you just say no? What if your buddies signed you up to do some gay porn? Would you just shrug your shoulders and say, “Well, I guess I’d better start lubing up.”
The reluctant comedian and the reluctant model would be perfect for each other because her Playboy profile says she loves a guy with a sense of humor. My ass. I’ve seen the guys you’re with. You hooked up with Lorenzo Lamas, bitch. You love a guy with a shaved chest and a spray tan who talks about himself in the third person.
Every time I interview one of these six-foot blondes and say, “You must have driven the boys crazy in high school,” they always give me the sob story about being “awkward” and not being asked to the prom. I’ll buy that with your Sarah Silverman types or that chick who played Juno. But if you’re Cameron Diaz or Jessica Biel, you’re either lying or went to school with a bunch of fags.
And apparently modeling is a miserable life. I remember hearing a few years back Tyra Banks talking about going to France when she was sixteen and how lonely it was and blah blah blah. Fuck you. You know where I went when I was a teenager? The Lawry’s Seasoned Salt factory in Eagle Rock. I left with a shirtful of tears and a packet of taco seasoning. I never left the county, much less the country.
Let me take a minute to officially nominate Tyra for Blowhard of the Century. I train with a guy named Terry Claybon. He is a boxing trainer to the stars. At his gym, he has signed pictures of some of his clients thanking him. Matt Damon thanked Terry. Nicolas Cage thanked Terry. Joe Rogan thanked Terry. But not Tyra. While everyone else had a picture of themselves with their arm around Terry saying thank you, she brought in her own picture of just her looking all greased up in a bikini with the following message:
“Thanks for making me strong, confident, and powerful. Can’t nobody fuck with me now.” And she signed it “Butterfly,” after Muhammad Ali.
This is the height of blowhard narcissism. First, I’m sure the “Butterfly” nickname was self-applied. This is something hacks do: They attach themselves to people wi
th actual talent in hopes of some reflected glory. But more egregiously, her thank-you did an e-brake-slide 180 and turned it right back on her. I wonder if she does this everywhere? What about the dry cleaner’s? “You guys are the best. Thanks for making me look so smoking hot in the blouses you cleaned.”
When Tyra isn’t thanking herself while thanking someone else, she’s doing a hidden-camera sting in a fat suit. This just in: Being fat and ugly makes your life harder. I know, shocking. Why is it always the hottest actresses and models telling us how beauty comes from within? I used to go insane over one of NBC’s “The More You Know” PSAs, in which Sports Illustrated swimsuit model Molly Sims says, “What makes you special is not what you wear or who you hang out with. Being proud of yourself is what really counts.” Thank you, hot skinny blond successful actress. I’m sure the chunky teenager behind the counter at the Quiznos in Tustin heard you loud and clear. Do you have no sense of hypocrisy? You’re only asked to make the goddamn PSA because you’re hot. We’d have no idea who you were if we didn’t want to fuck you. If I’ve learned anything from supermodels, it’s that as long as you “feel” sexy, men will be magically attracted to you. It doesn’t matter if you are pockmarked and weigh 550 pounds, and sixty-five of those pounds are neck goiter. It’s all about how you “feel.”
We’ve all bought into this retarded adage about beauty coming from within. Has anyone ever stopped and thought what an asinine statement that is? I like cars. But if somebody ever asked me what makes a ’69 Ferrari Daytona so beautiful and I said the engine block, I’d be a lying asshole.