Hell hath no fury like a female scorned. Any man who has ever truly pissed off a woman can attest to the truth of that statement. And that is NOT to imply that women are crazy, and if they are, we probably made them that way.
But my OCD riddled, anxiety stricken, too-much-time-on-my-hands havin’ ass has compiled a list of 20 things I am TRULY SCARED that I could drive a woman to do:
She could turn me from Bruce to Kaitlyn Jenner against my will, in my sleep (due to whatever she puts in my drink to knock me out), and I won’t even be able to reattach it like John Bobbitt did….(Note: This is the most extreme example. But still terrifying nonetheless.)
She could log in to my Netflix account and change all the “Recommended For You” to Romantic Comedies and crappy arthouse movies. Sounds trivial? Then you’ve never spent 90 minutes trying to find a 90 minute movie to watch.
Wielding nothing but a pair of scissors and a desire to make me suffer, she could transform all of my boxer briefs into just briefs. Thong cut. I am then forced to either replace them immediately, or make a conscious decision to give up circulation around the genital area until my next paycheck.
She could hack my Facebook, and proceed to send a message to a distant cousin or something creepy like that with only the words “I have feelings for you that I’ve been discussing with my court-appointed therapist……call me”.
She could post my picture near churches and schools with a caption below it that simply reads “Caution: Sex Offender on the loose. Please keep all small cats and dogs indoors after dusk.”
She could make a Grindr profile using my pictures and information, with an “about me” that states “I like to pretend I’m not gay, so if you see me in a public restroom, DO NOT take no for an answer! I wouldn’t want you to big boy, I like it rough :)”
Unbeknownst to me, she could give my information to every Jehovah’s Witness group she can find. My mornings will be spent screaming at my apartment intercom, until I snap and proceed to take a baseball bat to the buzzer. Shortly after that I’ll be evicted, and I’ll lose my security deposit. Coincidentally, this will also be the catalyst that puts me on the path to celibacy and a brotherhood with levitating monks.
She could replace my protein powder with laxative powder, and I’ll shit my pants when I go to squat at the gym. Talk about a surefire way to guarantee I’ll never impress the hot girl by the leg press…
She could replace my entire DVD collection of the series “Entourage” with old seasons of Gilmore Girls and Dawson’s Creek.
She could replace my shampoo with some sort of super strength hair removal cream, and I’ll be forced to endure the Mr. Clean look. Or buy a lot more hats.
She could cut the rubber band that gives my Ninja Turtles action figures the ability to do spin kicks and punches, or even to brandish their weapons via the button on the shell. In other words, she’ll render my mutant heroes into useless paraplegic decorations.
She could replace my daily vitamins with estrogen pills, and I would have no idea why “Glee” is suddenly so appealing, why “One Tree Hill” is the only thing I want to binge watch, why “The Notebook” is now my favorite movie, or why I’m growing less muscle but still developing a bigger chest…Also, where the fuck did this chocolate craving come from???
She could call up whoever I date next and say “It’s really brave of you to date him. You’ll be ok though, after all….it is my fault. I should have known that rag kind of smelled like chloroform.”
She could give my name and cell phone number to every telemarketer possible, with specific instruction to “disregard the do not call list”.
She could put superglue on my toilet seat.
Or replace my lotion with superglue. That could make masturbation the most unpleasant experience….and potentially make for a rather embarrassing trip to the E.R.
Or she could put Visine in my beer, and then lock the bathroom door. Legit fear.
She could buy 20 burner phones, and I get consistent texts from random numbers with messages like:
“I’m watching you pee”
“I wouldn’t touch that remote, you don’t know where it’s been….but I do”
“Does that water taste a little funny to you?”
“She has as an STD and now you do too”
“I’m still pregnant”
“I wouldn’t put that condom on with her, there might be a pin hole poked in it. Or 28 of them”
Or she could do the worst possible thing: nothing. But constantly send me this list and ask, “So, do you think I’m going to do any of these yet?”
And I will proceed to throw myself off of the tallest building in Chicago.