Hell, I Can Make It Anywhere, Even If I Am A Fuck Up

The primary main objective is to defeat the evil power, ohhhh?

It's 3:30pm on Friday and I have ABsolutely nothing to do ... yet I'm not allowed on gmail. Fantastic.

Have any of you played Kakuro? Well, when I was at my last assignment - you know, the one with the babe-a-licious babes - I was doing sudoku because I was so bored. One of the aforementioned a-licious asked me if I liked doing sudoku. I flirted with the idea of asking if that was some sort of Kama Sutra position, but decided against it, lying that I did indeed enjoy the sudoku and wasn't just doing it because I was bored to penis drip. Well, she turned me onto Kakuro and I think it's awesomer, though I'm pretty much a master of ceremonies by this point.

I'm also on the threshold of cracking the 50% barrier in Free Cell. And I've beaten Expert Minesweeper Without Right Clicking about a million times. And, really, who ever gets tired of the old standby Solitare? I imagine they would be the same kinds of foolish people who get sick of hearing the same Top 40 radio station day in and day out replaying the same loop of songs every three hours for an entire prisonesque workday. Those stupid fools! I LOVE MY LIFE!!!!!

By the way, have we all heard the new Britney Spears song by now? Does anyone else get the Timmy from South Park vibe whenever she croons into the chorus? Geebulable-ebulable GIM-MAY GIM-MAY GIM-MAY!

Maybe it's ah'cause she's so r'tarded?

Maybe it's ah'cause her mouth is so full of Big Macs?

I used to think that when you died and went to Hell, you'd be back in high school, decked out in full football pads in 85 degree heat, running an endless lap around multiple soccer fields, up dirt hills, and around a track circling a football field. In the center of that football field? A row of pristine fountains filled with blue-as-the-sky, 35 degree ice water; but the coach of the football team is obviously Satan and the next water break is in another 9,000 millenia.

But, since I'm no longer in high school or completely out of shape and have actually learned to appreciate running, I've decided Hell is actually sitting at a cubicle, with an out-of-print laptop that blocks any communication with the outside world and runs painfully slow on all other websites, and a radio on the other side of the cubicle wall playing New York's 103.5 The Beat (Music That Makes You Feel GOOD!). Of course, there's no actual work to do - because work would be something that's somewhat engaging to anybody with half a brain - but whenever you stop pretending to work for more than five seconds (which means shuffling the same papers over and over, taking out and replacing the same paper clips, writing faux post-it notes for things), the disembodied head of your snivelling excuse for a boss appears over your shoulder to give you the third degree and you can't say anything because you A. need cash and B. can't afford to get shitcanned from this temp agency.

It's now 4:07pm and time has flown south for the winter. You have no idea how badly I'm pulling for a third trip to the crapper.

For the sake of argument, let's take all the variables like personality, sense of humor, wealth, sports car status, and size of penis out of the equation and just focus on The Looks in the question of whether or not it's possible for me to Get Some. Essentially, what I'm asking here is, What Is My Ceiling?

Everyone has a ceiling as far as Looks are concerned. If you eat right, keep trim, exercise, stay toned, show a little muscle, manage to have a full head of hair and no problems with your complexion, you're ahead of the game. You've hit your ceiling.

Now, obviously, ceilings are different for everybody. There's a certain plateau of sexiness you simply can NOT achieve without the right genes. Some people, for whatever reason not necessarily dependent upon the attractiveness of the parents, are squeezed out of the vagina destined to exceed that sexiness plateau. You can call it The Jordan Catalano Corollary (to borrow a phrasing technique from the Sports Guy). Take your Brad Pitts, your George Clooneys, your Insert Sexiest Man Alive Here, they're born good looking. Their ceiling has nearly no limit (because, obviously you're not necessarily going to be the bee's knees to EVERY single heterosexual woman alive), but they could easily fuck it up by being overweight or hideously disfigured due to self-mutilation fetishes (or whathaveyou). Nevertheless, their Worst Case Scenario as far as Looks are concerned isn't nearly as low as a Regular Dude like me and my ilk.

I realize I'm not - nor will I ever be - above that plateau where I can walk into a room and have my pick of the single and the not-so-single alike. However, I've done the 'So Repulsive Nobody Will Look At Me' for quite a while and I worked my way up to, 'Well, At Least SOMEBODY Will Do Me', but I'd like to know what it's like to live beyond that ceiling. I'd just like to know what that ceiling could possibly be before I go out there looking for trouble.

Think of it this way: On a scale from 1-10, with 10 being the epitome of Regular Dude Sexiness (and those of the Jordan Catalano Corollary rising an extra ten spaces up to 20), where am I at now and where can I possibly end up and what's the number I need to be at to have a sufficient sex life? None of these are questions I can answer objectively, obviously, but if I ventured a guess, I'd say I'm rounding the bases at a 4 or a 5, I need to be at a 6 or a 7 to get consistent tail, and my ceiling will never top an 8. I mean, there's the balding hair, the 30-long pant legs, the whole George Costanza vibe I've got about me, and the fact that I've got the fashion sense of a blind man. Even if I managed to figure out how to dress and look good in hats ... I mean, let's face it, I've got an odd look. I'm not going to be the majority's cup o' tea. BUT, I think I have the potential to be a healthy minority's glass of Ovaltine. It all hinges on me doing what I'm doing until I'm presentable enough to get back out there In The Game.

Until then, it's all progress. Little by little, climbing up the Sexiness Ladder, trying to figure out how to incorporate personality, sense of humor, and penis size into the overall package.