The DCist people have struck back. Because they are not allowed to talk about me on DCist for fear of being fired, they are using Big Head Rob to voice their dissatisfaction to my recent comments.

?I?d say that?s indicative of trouble in his own house,? said Jason Linkins, aka the DCeiver, who writes about sports at DCist. ?When he decided to launch his own one-third assed version of Screenhead under the authorship of his cat, my reaction was: ?Oh. He?s over.??

The only trouble I have in my house is a moth problem. Even though it was well-received, it’s safe to say that Furball’s blog will not be going on my resume. Since I’m not a corporate entity hungry for eyeballs, a “failure” on my end still allows me to sleep at night.

The editor, whose firing I called for, was a little bit more feisty.

Cripes, Rob, who the heck is D.C. Bachelor? I think I may recall having heard of his site once or twice before, but after looking it over just now, it?s by no means clear to me why I should take anything he says seriously ? by all evidence he appears to be a self-proclaimed misogynist and all-around disgusting creep.

Has she been talking to my ex’s?

I mean he is selling a T-shirt that says ?I Pump and I Dump? on his site, and in his ?Hall of Fame? posts includes something called ?Girls Lack Conversation Skills.? Ick. Enough said. It seems obvious we are not catering to readers like him, so I?m not surprised he doesn?t like our site. I couldn?t care less.

With that kind of bitter attitude, it’s just a matter of time until she writes in to FDDC asking, “Why can’t I meet a man???” We get them all the time. I would like to extend an invitation to her for the Lovers Happy Hour; it’s much more fun to call me a disgusting creep in person than on the internet. I know girls who have done it and they tell me how great it made them feel.

I think in their haste to attack me, they forgot to address any of the points I brought up explaining their slow death. I’m sure they will get to it soon — after the next classical music agenda installment.

At the gym the other day there was a guy next to me, maybe around 25, who was lifting his shirt in the aerobic area to check out his body in the mirror, unable to wait until he got home. He had a six-pack and maybe 5% body fat.

How often do guys with six-packs actually get to show it off? There are maybe three months each year that is suitable for going to the beach or pool. Even if you go at least once every week, that’s only twelve times. Since getting a six-pack is pretty damn hard unless you have the genetics (two words: black men), why put in all that effort?

“‘Cause ladies love it.”

The only time she is seeing the product of your countless hours of working out and diet monitoring are in the bedroom, with the lights off, after she already decided to sleep with you. Better time would be spent reading something like a history book — maybe then you can have more things to talk about besides your project management job.

And then there are the ‘roid monsters who look like they were created in a laboratory. Other than at the gym, when do they actually use those muscles? They can lift a car for two seconds but can’t run a mile without having a heart attack. The only two thoughts going through their brain are if they look good and when their next protein feeding is. The bigger the muscles a man has, the lower his self-esteem. “Oh no I plateaued, these supplements aren’t working!”

Maybe I’m bitter because my hairy coat doesn’t show off my muscles like the Abercrombie models. Or maybe I take a practical approach with a goal of health instead of cosmetic excess. Eating right and working out is the best investment you can make: take care of yourself now to have less have problems later. But if you are stepping in to the gym to try to impress people, or if your life resolves around the gym culture of exaggerated grunting noises and ThermoSpeed energy drinks, you need to work on few other things first — in your head, not on your body.

I trained hard to prepare my body for two weeks of punishment. I went to the gym four times a week and put my body in the best shape it has ever been in my life. But it wasn’t enough because I decided to embark on a brand of tourism that was unsustainable. Here’s how to destroy your body in four quick days:

1. Stay out until at least 4am every night. Each night drink an amount of alcohol that your body normally doesn’t see in a week.

2. Get less than 4 hours of sleep a night.

3. Halve your normal caloric intake.

4. Consider water overrated.

5. After doing the above four items, insist on walking miles a day.

On the train ride back to Valencia from Bunol, I noticed a slight pain in the back of my throat. Encouraging emails from friends the day before urged me to push it no matter what, to sacrifice myself for the greater good of fun, excitement, and notches. Yes, I must keep pushing beyond what my body is capable of. I took a nap and prepared for my date with Ana the Polish girl, who I met
the night before.

It was much easier in Spain to meet quality, foreign girls. I remember thinking of the trouble I’d have adjusting to girls back home, having to go from Godiva chocolates to Hershey bars.

Ana took me a Brazilian bar called Opera where we met up with twelve of her friends, eleven of them female. They were from Croatia, Germany, Czech Republic, Spain, and of course, Poland. Back at home I often wish to be a part of a large international circle of foreigners who come together to share laughs, drinks, and sex. I was living the dream but unable to fully enjoy it.

Excited about her newfound Spanish skills, she insisted on talking to me in Spanish. Problem is I didn’t really understand, and I just nodded my head as the pain in my throat got worse. I didn’t mind being her language guinea pig as long as I didn’t have to talk.

Opera became completely packed and all eyes were on the stage for the Capoeira demonstration. Capoeira is a Brazilian martial art that has little or no contact — it looks like a cross between ballet and gymnastics, with acrobatic kicks and moves that sometimes match with music. The demonstration by the three Brazilian men was nice, and I liked watching them balance themselves on their head while contorting their body in various directions, but I wanted the Brazilian female dancer I saw warming up on the side to take the stage.

Some women, like this Brazilian, have the ability to rotate the lower half of their body while keeping the upper half completely still — a complete mastery of the spine that is common with professional belly dancers. It was mesmerizing to watch a perfect body move perfectly; it puts you into such a spell that in this case I was convinced she is worthy to be my bride, and I don’t even believe in marriage.

By the end of her performance, the throat pain was so great that I had trouble speaking. The smoke was getting to me and my head was hurting. Ana was being nice, sitting there patiently waiting for me to take charge and be a man. But there would be no way I could service her tonight. I excused myself to leave at the night’s peak.

Every trip has its low point and for Spain it was tonight, getting ill and leaving an amazing bar and guaranteed action to return to an unbearably hot hotel room the size of a jail cell. I cursed myself for being too cheap to pay five extra euros for something bigger with air conditioning. Yes, this would be the low point, dry heaving over the toilet, desperately needing to vomit and unable to sleep. I would never fully recover.

I doubted my decision to visit Spain after I booked the flight. While a seemingly great country, how unique can my experience be in one of the most touristy countries in the world? I’ll visit some cathedrals, walk down ancient cobblestone streets, and party in random, overpriced clubs. I set my expectations so low that success was all but guaranteed.

I was reading the latest issue of Budget Traveler while waiting at the terminal in Dulles airport. I could swear this girl was giving me a look. She wore green Converse shoes with puffy white pants and a tight shirt. Her hair was long, wavy and wild, and she was doing Sudoku with thick, nerd glasses perched on her nose. Definitely young and definitely not American.

“Let me guess, you’re from France,” I said.

“No. I’m from Spain.”

“Even better!”

She told me she’s 18 and about to start her freshman year at a college in Barcelona.

I say a lot of big words about wanting a young girl. I remember it starting as a joke but turning serious in the past year after my experiences drove me to the conclusion that women over 25 are generally not worth the trouble. But young American girls can often be more hassle. So what is the answer? Or rather, where is it? I’m not completely sure, but young, foreign girls who haven’t adopted our culture are very different from their American counterparts.

Clara was friendly but not too friendly, warm but not too warm. If she got off the plane before me or cleared through customs first she would wait for me. A girl who is not too focused playing the game and worrying if she is showing too much interest is, after all, what I want - a girl who lies in the optimal middle-ground between needy and coquette.

She has had just as many interesting life experiences as me, and had no problem conversing with someone almost ten years her senior. Her rich life experience showed in her lively personality. Her realistic view of the world displayed her knowledge. And her body language showed that she is comfortable being around an older man.

Not until an American girl hits the age of 24 or 25 does she start becoming sensual. Before that age she has very little clue how to act around a man, how to hook him, and how to arouse him. She knows how to play phone games, but she doesn’t know how to use personality and language in a game of seduction where real emotions become involved. And no wonder she needs advice on to get men to call her back. By the time she “gets it,” she has been used and abused too many times by guys such as myself to go into new relationships with honesty and openness. The fear of getting hurt simply ensures its occurrence.

I wanted Clara to join me in Barcelona. Scenes of movies popped in my head, where a lone traveler finds his beautiful soul mate and has to hold back manly tears when it’s time to say goodbye. This came after visions of hours of rough, steamy sex with this tanned, curvy Spaniard.

Or I could just exchange email addresses with her.

Clara would be the first of many girls where cruel logistics would stop things just short of where they could have gone. And she would be the only Spanish girl I’d get to know during the entire trip.

I have a big problem of not listening to people when I already have my heart set on doing something. People warned me that Paris would be completely dead in August. I always thought that was sort of an exaggeration, like saying “All the French are snooty”.

No, really, everything is closed in August. I’m not sure how you can run a country when everyone departs the capital in August - a capital that is not just a political one but a financial and cultural one as well - AND takes a national holiday on top of that (Aug. 15, Fete de l’Assomption).

But first - arriving at Charles de Gaulle airport and getting to Paris from there is a completely separate hassle. The airport, interestingly, looks like something out of “Blade Runner” - like a futuristic layout that is so dirtied and aged that it just winds up being decrepit. I only speak “enough French to get by” but I managed to get my bags and find the shuttle to the RER train that takes you into Paris. Helpful hint, if you get into Paris this way you have to buy a separate train ticket (that costs more than just a plain old subway ticket). Thanks for being a bitch about it, subway window lady. Don’t you have a strike to go on?

I took the Metro into Paris and had hoped to transfer onto another RER line to reach the stop closest to my hotel (stop Musee d’Orsay). Unfortunately, the station where I wanted to make the transfer - Saint-Michel - was closed to that particular line. Which means when I exited the station, I had to walk several blocks while dragging my suitcases in order to reach my hotel. And of course it was raining. I was so completely stressed out by the time I reached my hotel that I had to take a very long nap after I checked in.

My hotel, the Hotel d’Orsay, is marked on the map. Normally the St Germain des Pres, the main boulevard just to the south of it, is bustling. When I was there, I was often the only person on the street for a few blocks - everything was closed.

I have only one picture from Paris, mainly because I was so incredibly annoyed by the entire city shutting down that I decided to not take pics out of spite. And also because the last time I was there (6 years ago, in June, which was really fun), I took a million pictures. But I digress.

Since I’d already done the touristy stuff and so many things were closed, Paris was boring and a rittle ronery. I spent most of my time walking around and looking at neighborhoods. I considered going to see “Marie Antoinette” one day, but the movies were dubbed, not in subtitles. The best day was when I met up with the president of my school’s alumni group in Montmartre for a tour and lunch (including escargots, which are like oysters but a little tougher).

My one Paris pic - the view from the Sacre Coeur looking out over Paris. Because of building height restrictions, there are few skyscrapers.

Thursday morning I woke up and caught a train from the Gare de Lyon to St-Raphael on the coast, and from there I took a boat to my next destination.

I was terribly unimpressed with the French women I saw. You always hear about how put-together they are, and feminine, and stylish, and “don’t get fat“. These are mainly lies. French women have just as big of guts as I’ve ever seen, and plenty more wrinkles because they smoke like chimneys and tan themselves to the point of looking like a rich cognac-colored handbag that I’d like to own. Also, many women I saw - FRENCH women - had hair colors that simply have no origins in nature. Skunk-stripe highlights and lots of brunettes-turned-redheads. For all the fuss about French women not wearing makeup, they are certainly willing to experiment on other parts of their heads.

One more gripe about the French. They’re not snobby, just terribly unhelpful. I wonder if French people come to the U.S. and ask why everyone is so accommodating. I actually saw one woman at the Air France counter in Nice flat-out refuse to talk to a girl who was obviously running late for a flight. This was pretty typical.

You’re at the club talking to some broad. She seems a little stiff but that’s no problem because you have a sharp sense of humor. Unfortunately, she takes your anal sex joke the wrong way. She asks you to apologize and you refuse. Next thing you know, the bouncer is dragging you out of the club. And you weren’t even hitting on her.

Once a girl points you out to a bouncer, you are out. This happened to a friend of mine two weeks ago after some girl made up a story that involved a roofie. The artificial environment of a club is unique in that the natural distribution of gender power is disrupted. Meathead bouncers will always take a girl’s word over a man’s. Some girls realize this and use it to their advantage, forcing many players to tone their game down. But I don’t want to bastardize my game simply because girls are overly sensitive.

I rather hit the streets.

Street game is one of the purest forms of game because it involves moving targets. You have to hit a girl with the tightest of the tight to get her to stop walking to her predetermined destination. It takes a lot of practice to find what works and what doesn’t, but it’s worth it when you can get closes without having to physically go inside buildings. While street game offers me this challenge, among others benefits, the main reason I do it is simple: I can say whatever the fuck I want. It may be crude or offensive, but I don’t care because my buddy is over there dying of laughter and we’re all having a good time.

Most girls are cool when you bust out with the raw material. They’ll laugh and you will have a little conversation that may or may not lead to more. But girls who take themselves too seriously tend to get really pissed. These are the girls who used to make a scene in a club, snapping their fingers in your face. But now we’re outside. The gender power distribution is back to what it should be. I’m the bear with the big claws so either she laughs at my joke or hops away. I will not hesitate to defend myself against a violent woman. If someone is getting dropped I know it won’t be me.

You may get to the point where the street game before or after visiting the main event is the highlight of your night. The street is not an artificial environment that you have to adjust to. It’s real. You can hit the extremes and test the limits of your game, taking note on emotional reactions of women when you say things they’ve never heard before. You can be more creative. Do that for a while and you feel almost handcuffed once you are in a club, a place that is designed to bitch men into supplicating to women. “Can I buy you a drink?”

I’ve had my wisdom teeth in for years now and they’ve caused zero problems. So what they’re impacted. I don’t really understand the concept of going through surgery with its long recovery time and possible complications to address a problem that may never arrive. I figure this is a money-making scheme that starts at the top of the American Association of Oral and Maxillofacial Surgeons and trickles its way all the way down to the American Dental Association. But I succumbed. The nagging has gone on for three years, and I hate nagging. Plus I’m young with health insurance, and it does seem odd that I have teeth sticking out halfway through my gums. Besides, I’m sure teeth extraction technology has advanced from the days of metal tools and pliers. The doctor will vaporize my teeth with a friggin’ laser beam in a bloodless operation.

I decided beforehand to get local anesthesia only. I think it’s fine for women to go under because they are physically weak and can not handle pain. But no real man would go under to just get a couple teeth pulled. I also wanted to avoid the weird anal soreness side-effect of anaesthesia that happened to me last time I went under.

The first thing I noticed when I got in the operation room was the dental tray of metal tools and pliers. There was a 40 mL syringe of Novocaine, which by syringe standards is gigantic. (For a simple cavity, the syringe is no large than 5 mL.) The most painful part of the entire surgery was in the beginning when the doctor had to poke all over my mouth with this needle. Note: the roof of your mouth does not like getting stabbed with a sharp object. I anticipated the pliers to make an early appearance but was surprised when he pulled out a small metal stick instead. He put it against a wisdom tooth at top and just pushed down with moderate force. It came out within 30 seconds. “Wowww that wazzzz eeeeassy!” (Remember my mouth was completely numb.)

The next tooth was at the bottom. The same stick did not do the trick. He brought out a lot more metal sticks and used a bit more force. Then the drill came out. It was the biggest drill I’ve ever seen in my life. He would drill a little bit then attempt to use brute strength to get the tooth out. It still wasn’t coming out. He brought out the pliers for this one and I learned that teeth are pretty loud when they crack. Several times he braced against the chair and my body to get enough leverage to muscle the tooth out. I remember his arm was pressed against my forehead at one point, like he was trying to put me in a sleeper hold. All that force was going into one side of my jaw so I asked for a few breaks. During one break, the doctor looked frustrated and walked out the room.

He came back five minutes later and poked my mouth with some more Novocaine. “Oh no, he’s going to bust out with some experimental shit!” He would use a tool, slam it on his table, sigh, then stare at all his tools for a couple seconds to decide what to use next. I tried to pretend I couldn’t see the frustration in his face. He was mad at my tooth, and was tired of taking its shit. Who did the tooth think it was fucking with? Finally after about 15 minutes, before having to bring out the saw from storage, he got it out. I needed a break. I stood up and noticed my “Grandma Loves Me” bib was covered with blood.

He had a different strategy for each tooth. The last tooth got a lot of plier action: pulling, cracking, twisting. After about five minutes, I heard him say “Jeez!” as he pulled the final monster from my mouth. It was gigantic and ugly, like a turd left by a medium-sized animal. It was over. There is no fourth tooth because I’m a mutant.

Advice to those of you who still have your wisdom teeth: DON’T DO IT. And if it eventually does cause problems, only take out one at a time. You will be less likely to go through days of recovery, where the different stages of your facial appearance represents a species from the animal kingdom:

Day 1: Elephant man
Day 2: Chipmunk
Day 3: Hamster storing peanuts

Now excuse me while I go wash the blood spots from my pillowcases.