hayley jo

How to hit on women via social media: A guide for the otherwise creepy guy.

After taking a ten-month hiatus from sanity to drive everyone within five feet of me seven kinds of crazy and develop three new nervous twitches along the way (some people call it “planning a wedding,” tomato, toe-mah-toe), I’m back! Back to being a fully functioning, (semi) normal human again.

That’s right everyone, I now have the mental capacity to focus on other things besides tablecloths (I pray none of you ever has to know the depths of various tablecloth fabrics the way I now intimately know them) and slightlydifferent shades of pinks (key word: slightly). Think French Rose Pink and Persian Rose Pink are the basically the same thing? Hahaha! Think again, you poor, ignorant, confused simpleton. French Rose Pink and Persian Pink are tremendously different things, and if you choose the wrong shade EVERYTHING WILL BE RUINED AND NO ONE WILL HAVE FUN AT YOUR WEDDING AND YOU WILL PROBABLY BE DIVORCED IN LESS THAN A YEAR. So, yeah, choose your hues wisely, guys.

Anyway, as happy as I am to no longer be a lunatic anymore, no one is happier than my now husband, who weathered the storm of wedding planning and lived to tell about it. Our former weekend nights, consisting of lazy couch sitting or pizza eating or margarita drinking, quickly transformed into seating chart making, envelope addressing and bird food eating. (“Bird food” is what he referred to as our means of sustenance during those last few months leading up to the big day. Nuts, seeds, legumes… sometimes raisins if we were feeling naughty. Poor guy definitely had his Man Card revoked during that time. But it was totally necessary because our wedding meant it was MY our time to shine. And in order to look as good as we possibly could on our special day we needed to become skeletons of our former selves, obviously. It’s just wedding basics, guys; Wedding 101.)

So yeah, I went from a single woman to a betrothed woman to a wedded woman, all thanks to one thing: social media. (And to Clay Travis, if you ask him, but mostly social media.)

For those of you who don’t know, I met my husband after he read my debut article on OKTC back in July of 2011. It was so sweet: he politely asked Clay for my phone number and then promptly called me on the telephone and proceeded to ask me out on a proper date to the nicest steakhouse in town the following evening. LOL, just kidding, you guys! He saw my name in the byline, let an entire month drag by, then sat behind a computer screen and searched for me via Twitter and proceeded to hit on me via social media, telling me he was partying at Paradise Park that night and I could “hit him up” if I wanted to join. I mean… *SWOON.*

But here’s the scary part, y’all: it worked. IT FREAKING WORKED. That is either really terrifying or really amazing or actually a little bit of both. So I’m here to break this down and explain what he did right. Consider this your non-creepy guide to getting a wife via social media (for the otherwise creepy guy). Shout out to all the guys out there who are “only reading this to pass on tips to their creepy friends.”


  1. He DM’d me.

If you’re going to use Twitter as your vehicle of choice for running game, then you had better get familiar with the “Send Direct Message” button. There are not many things more painful for innocent spectators than witnessing public Twitter banter between horny, lonely people of the Internet. Or worse, one horny, lonely guy Tweeting at an indifferent, unresponsive hot girl. When the world can see your failed attempts at getting lucky, you need to reevaluate your actions and probably your life in general.


  1. He complimented me.

“Hey. Had no idea you were so funny.” That was his opening line, in reference to my OKTC article. Some important background info you need to know is that we’d actually met briefly at a Nashville bar the year before. We had introduced ourselves, shaken hands, made some small talk, but I immediately went on with my night and didn’t think anything of it, mostly because he was wearing a neon bandana wrapped around his forehead and a T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off (don’t ask). It later came out that he thought I was “quiet” and “shy” and “just another blonde girl” (translation=boring and not funny and probably really dumb). He was genuinely flabbergasted that someone like me could form sentences that would entertain him. So, his opening line was essentially a backhanded compliment… but a compliment, nonetheless! And if there’s one thing a single girl loves, it’s a damn compliment. And we don’t even care how it’s presented! “Hey, I’m having more fun with you than I thought I would.” YOU’RE GETTING LAID. “Hey, you’re not as ugly as I remembered you being last time.” WE ARE YOURS FOREVER WHEN ARE WE MEETING YOUR PARENTS HOW MANY BRIDESMAIDS SHOULD WE HAVE. So, yeah, compliment her, guys.  It’s easier than you think.


  1. He played it cool(ish).

If you’re already going through the trouble of stalking nonchalantly perusing the Interwebs trying to track her down, you’ve already used up your overzealous card for the foreseeable future. Like, you’re already not playing it cool to an extent, so don’t be afraid to chill the eff out a little, k? In this case, he took the UBER cool guy approach, which can be tricky if you’re dealing with a girl who has a strong sense of how to play “the game” (SPOILER ALERT: I DIDN’T. GAME? WHAT GAME?). The second half of the DM read, “Lemme know if you’re gonna be out and about tonight,” and then he added his cell number. That’s it, no “What are you doing tonight?” or “Would love to meet up,” not even the correct version of the words “let me.” (That part was a little offensive to me, and I told myself if he ever used “u” in place of the actual word then he was toast.) And what did I do? I put those digits to good use and texted him that same night. (SRSLY though, WHAT GAME?)


  1. He swooped in when his prey was vulnerable.

Actually, he had no idea how great his timing was, so I can’t fully give him credit for this move. However, he Tweeted at me exactly when my roommate’s boyfriend was coming to town to visit for the weekend, i.e. as I was preparing to be the dreaded third wheel and just eat my feelings for the next three days.

GUYS, THIS IS AN IMPERATIVE MOVE. You need to figure out a way to adhere to this step.

“Heck, what do I have to lose?” I’d thought as I was texting him. “The person on the other end of this line can’t be any worse than the thought of accompanying my roommate and her boyfriend on yet another romantic dinner and then trying to spoon with them on the couch afterwards and talk about our futures together.” So use your resources, ask around, stalk her roommate’s Facebook, do whatever you need to do in order to time this out correctly and figure out when she’s at her weakest (and maybe even a little delusional?). When a girl is lonely and sad about being single and sick of being the third wheel, it’s amazing how much better you’ll look.


  1. He finally did initiate real human-to-human contact (…eventually).

So yes, the tweeting and texting did go on for a few weeks, but eventually he moved the party from the virtual world to the actual world and asked me on a brunch date to only the classiest of classy joints, YOLO’S in Nashville. (Sadly, YOLO’S has since been shut down since that first date, most likely due to extreme health code violations, although we don’t have this on good authority. RIP YOLO’S, you really did only live once.)


So there you have it, everyone. Now for a little recap, shall we? Guys: it IS doable to pick up girls via social media. And girls: not ALL guys who hit on you via social media are total skeezeballs. In fact, they can even turn out to be your husband! (Now, Tinder? I am not speaking for Tinder. Tinder is a totally separate beast and was invented after my single days, therefore it is so mysterious to me and frankly it terrifies me a little bit. I repeat, do not apply any of my above advice to the world of Tinder. In fact, you should probably just assume every guy on Tinder is a huge creeper with a roofie in his back pocket. Yeah, let’s just go with that to be safe.)


So happy Tweeting, everyone! (And happy swiping, Tinder creeps!)

You were wrong about Christmas.

The most wonderful time of the year isn’t Christmas, everyone. (Did you realize you were wrong about that all these years?) No, the most wonderful time of the year is fall.

Not Halloween, specifically, because I’m at that awkward age where I can’t quite figure out how to celebrate it: I don’t have the option of trick-or-treating door to door anymore without raising my neighborhood’s collective eyebrow, and I don’t yet have children to be my pawn so that I can live out that night to the fullest (“Trick or treat! Oh, thank you, Mister, but little Tommy doesn’t like Tootsie Rolls. He would like to know if you have any Godiva 70% Pure Cacoa bars? If not, he will just settle for a Snickers. King-sized, please.”) So it seems the only choice I have is to celebrate by attending adult Halloween parties, which terrify me. An adult Halloween party is really just a drunken over-grown orgy at this point, and orgies are just plain exhausting! I mean, who has time for that, AMIRIGHT, fellow cool people? (Was that convincing? Lemme know.) Plus, I’m just weird and I like to wear my bra and panties UNDER my clothes, instead of like, as an outfit for a Halloween party. Yeah, I know, LOOOO-SER. So, not collecting candy from strangers and not really fitting in at adult Halloween parties leaves that night feeling very anticlimatic for me. Also, I don’t mean Thanksgiving specifically either, because on Thanksgiving I always insist on seeing how close I can come to having to get my stomach pumped. It’s like I black out and eat my weight in pie and then when I finally come to I am pretty sure I should kill myself but instead just manuever myself into the fetal position and quietly weep. So, that kind of puts a damper on the night.

But fall in general? I think it’s glorious. That’s probably due to the fact that I have a hearty obsession with pumpkins. Pumpkin candles, pumpkin coffees, pumpkin breads, pumpkin wreaths, pumpkin patches, PUMPKINS. I went to Trader Joe’s yesterday and stocked up on my yearly pumpkin supply, not remembering that I now have a walking disposal system; a four-legged monster of destruction who inhales anything and everything in her path and never looks back. So, yeah, those voluptuous orange beauties don’t stand a chance.


I’m really enjoying the 72 hours I’ll have with my new fall decor, y’all.

Also, if anyone is in the area and can help me eat the 2 dozen pumpkin spice cookies I baked this afternoon, it would be greatly appreciated. (Feeding my pumpkin love affair today via SkinnyTaste http://www.skinnytaste.com/2011/09/low-fat-pumpkin-spiced-chocolate-chip.htmlRead the rest of this entry »

It all makes sense now.

The other day I accidentally locked myself out of Barton’s house when he was at work. I began to panic and started rummaging around in my purse to find some sort of tool (a bobbie pin? hairbrush? hammer? ice pick? Not quite sure what I was expecting to find in there) to help me finagle my way into the house. All I could come up with was my credit card, which I absurdly thought that I could use to pull off some sort of expert burglar door-opening execution. “This is never going to work,” I said as I effortlessly slid the card into the door crease by the lock and watched as THE DOOR QUICKLY AND EASILY POPPED OPEN and OMG I’M SO PROUD OF MYSELF BECAUSE I’M A SAVVY GENIUS and OMG THIS IS ACTUALLY THE MOST TERRIFYING THING EVER. So many conflicting emotions were being experienced at that moment.

I could only bask in my resourcefulness for a full 3 seconds before realizing that this lock was completely useless and arbitrary and ANY random psychopath on their afternoon psychopathic stroll could effortlessly breeze into the house at any moment using only the contents of whatever is in their pocket at the time*. I immediately went into full on basketcase mode and called Barton, the self-proclaimed “Voice of Reason,” who expressed the exact response I thought he would: complete indifference.

Nothing phases this man. Your door glides open with a little piece of plastic and a little flick of the wrist? No big deal, at least you got inside. You were two hours late picking up your girlfriend for a planned Saturday outing with his family, AND you forgot to bring the pasta salad? It’s fine, relax, no one died and you got there eventually, didn’t you? Your entire HOUSE IS ON FIRE, going up in violent, fiery flames right before your eyes??? It’s only a house, we can get another one.

I used to get so upset when he wouldn’t show what I deemed were the proper reactions to certain scenarios. Whereas literally EVERYTHING phases me, nothing phases him, and I would be outraged at his lack of impassioned response.

There is a story about Barton from his college days where he inadvertantly discovered that a homeless man had been living in his basement for an unspecified amount of time. He had set up hidden cameras in the house as a prank to spy on his roommates (creep) and while watching the footage back one night (huge creep), he watched on film as a homeless man mosied out of the basement and just strolled out of his house one afternoon while he had been in class. Whereas I would’ve instantaneously blacked out upon setting eyes on this scene, promptly packed up my things while screaming at the top of my lungs the entire time, moved out of the house and then signed up for approximately 2 to 4 months of post-traumatic stress therapy to deal with the latent fears of a crazy homeless intruder sleeping under my same roof, Barton simply shrugged it off and went back to eating his dinner. THIS IS WHAT I’M DEALING WITH HERE, EVERYONE.

It’s exhausting trying to provoke some sort of emotion out of him all the time. If you’re with the two of us, you will usually hear me saying things like, “But, doesn’t this worry you?” or “Aren’t you freaked out by this?” or some other variation of the phrase. But then THIS gem of a video surfaced … and it ALL makes sense now.

(KEEP YOUR EYES ON THE GUY IN THE BLUE SHIRT, STANDING BY THE FIELD IN THE BACKGROUND. RECOGNIZE HIM?): http://deadspin.com/reporter-gets-run-over-by-football-player-while-conduct-733218927

It was also on the Yahoo homepage today... SMH.

It was also on the Yahoo homepage today… SMH.

Not an “OMG,” not a step in the direction of the injured girl, not a bat of an eyelash, not even the slight widening of an eye. Yes, it all makes perfect sense now: If this man doesn’t react to an ususpecting, delicate little lady getting ferociously pummeled by a huge beefcake running at full speed– I mean, doesn’t even FLINCH– then how can I expect him to react to ANYTHING? After watching this video, I know I should probably feel sympathy and compassion for this poor girl, but oddly the only emotions I’m really feeling are relief and validation. This is just how he is! I don’t have to be mad at him anymore! This would free up my schedule significantly and give me a lot more free time.

*Disclaimer to all the robbers out there: The door has since been fixed since that fateful day, so don’t try any funny business over here. A few years ago, one of Barton’s meathead friends had savagely busted through the back door one day and broken the deadbolt (because, heaven forbid you simply twist the handle and OPEN IT like a decent human being. You know, those damn doors. Always getting in the way.)

Puppy Withdrawals.

We had to board our puppy for the very first time this weekend. And even though she spends most of her life either like THIS…


Or like THIS…


…we are still kind of a basketcase without her (although it has been nice not to have had any blood drawn by a needle-point, razor-sharp puppy tooth in the past 24 hours. Yes, on the bright side, the weekend away will be a great time to replenish our plasma levels after three months of immense blood loss.)

Before driving away from the boarding facility yesterday, we stopped to watch her out on the playground, assimilating into the rest of the group. I had my face pressed up really tight against the chainlink fence, and I kept poking my fingers through the fence holes and waving at her. Of course she ignored us, probably getting made fun of by the other dogs for having the dreaded “hover parents” and thinking to herself, “GOD, Mom, get a grip. This is like, so embarrassing.” We’ve only been gone a day and I’ve already called the place twice to check in on her, asked for a full report on how many friends she has made so far, had the poor front desk guy text me a picture of her, and spent 25 minutes on the phone with the owner trying to connect to their in-house puppy webcam so I can stream live video of Milo all. day. long.

And now all I can think about is: the only thing scarier than having kids any time soon, is how scary it’s going to be dropping them off at summer camp one day. If it is this traumitic leaving a CANINE for a weekend, Lord only knows how emotionally scarred I will be leaving actual real, live, breathing human being offspring that I have carried around for 9 months and then birthed.

But there’s no time to dwell on all that. I have to go live-stream Milo drinking some water and chewing on her butt right now. Later, guys.



The importance of looking cute on Homemade Pizza Night.

You know what’s annoying? Those couples who cook some elaborate meal together and then document every step of it and then photograph the finished product and then blog about it and then ohmygod it’s actually the cutest thing EVER and then you hate them for being so cute and then you kind of hope their kitchen catches on fire? Yeah, those couples are the worst.

You know the types I’m talking about: those irritatingly cute, talented bloggers who make cooking from scratch look like a walk in the park– a fun, breezy, low-stress walk in the park where they simultaneously transcribe their exchange of witty banter they had with their spouses that day and then still have time to impart some little gem of feel-good wisdom to their readers. So I was pondering this rare breed of human while walking my maniac pup, Milo, the other night, and I came to a few conclusions. 1) I really do commend these annoying people for their proclivity for complete perfection and 2) I know I am not (nor will I ever be) one of them.

“But should that keep me from blogging about MY cooking endeavors, favorite recipes, home deco experiments, new beauty finds and other sorts of domestic female general interests???”, I screamed out loud to no one in particular while leading Milo into the dog park. The dog park seemed to clear quickly right after that, and all the dog owners pulled their leashes a little tighter that night, but I couldn’t be bothered by all of that because I had just made a decision: Barton and I were going to make a homemade pizza, and then I was going to blog about it. And we were going to be damn cute doing it.

So, without further ado, here is the master dough maker at work in his element.


Impressive, right?


You know where that big blob of delicious dough landed right after that expert toss? Right smack dab in the middle of the kitchen floor. Just like I warned him it would. (MEN.) So, things were off to a great start over here.

While I chopped up all the veggie toppings, Barton continued to give me multiple heart attacks by throwing the dough up into the air as high as the ceiling would allow and attempting to catch it with his fists, the whole time yelling in a hybrid Italian accent of sorts. I made him stop mid-toss though to take a picture of me; every step was important, and EVERY STEP needed to be documented, even if my veggie prep step wasn’t as imperative or required as much skill as Barton’s dough prep step (his words, not mine).


The finished product? An odd-shaped monster pie that was probably as tall as it was wide, due to a sudden competitive streak when it came to dressing the pizza with the toppings. What should’ve been a calm, nonthreatening task inexplicably turned into a heated race to see who could add the most toppings in the most appropriate spots of the pizza, while simultaneously correcting each other’s topping placements and ultimately overcompensating. Once again, MEN. Am I right, gals? Can I get an amen, my lady friends?

We sat down and enjoyed our handiwork paired with a salad and some red wine, basking in our blogworthy evening. Then, I proceeded to spend the rest of the night complaining to Barton about feeling sick and eventually convincing myself that I had a raging gluten allergy. (Was I sure what a gluten allergy actually was? No. Did I know exactly how one would go about discerning if she had a gluten allergy? Of course not. It was more of a buzz word I’d heard tossed around in health magazines, but I had already made up my mind by that point, and by God, I was allergic to the gluten in that dough. I was a victim, yes, but I would be a survivor. Maybe I would be a pillar of hope for all the other gluten allergy sufferers? Later that night, I went back to the fridge and ate the leftover pizza for a late night snack and waited for the allergy to wreak its havoc on my body. I felt okay. I don’t know, I heard it comes and goes.)

I know I’m missing an intricate part of the process by  not publishing a photo of the final product. The thing is, I accidentally burned it, leaving all of the once-beautiful red sundried tomatoes sprinkled atop the pizza looking like a bunch of little black worms crawling around on it. Not a good look for our pizza, guys. But it didn’t matter because I was pretty sure I had enough blogging material by that point to make me feel like a psuedo-domestic cooking blogger, and I was pretty sure we looked damn cute in the process (just smile and nod here), even if I did almost die of a gluten attack.

Timeline of a Kinko’s Trip.

The Insurance Nazis who emailed me some important documents today demanded that I sign them all and either fax or scan them back over to their offices.


Or Scan.

Those were my only two options here.

And so begins the conundrum…

Since last time I checked it wasn’t the year 1995, I knew I would not be using my non-existent fax machine to fax them in. Also, since I am a broke-@$$, very recent college graduate (SHUT UP, everyone. Two and a half years is still recent), sans the funds and technological prowess for such a luxury machine, I also knew I would definitely not be scanning them in.

Therefore, I realized I would now be forced to venture out to the nearest Kinko’s to take care of this mess—and this is how things would play out once there:

  • I will insert my credit card into the little timer box and watch the seconds tick away and the money add up as I sit and watch the sand trickle through the Hourglass Of Doom while the public PC from the Clinton Era takes seven minutes to boot up and open my documents.
  • I will attempt to scan these documents in and, upon realizing I have no idea how to actually do that, I will then give up and make my way over to the fax machine (which is securely chained to the desk because, obviously, fax machines are a hot commodity these days).
  • I will then commence faxing while simultaneously bursting a blood vessel in my left cornea out of frustration. (Are there really that many wrong ways to work a faxing machine, you may ask? Yes, yes there are. And that was with the directions typed out in big, bolded letters and duct-taped mockingly to the wall in front of my face.)
  • After witnessing my palpable distress, the prepubescent Kinko’s employee boy behind the counter will ask me if I need help, and I will obviously tell him no, because at this point it is imperative that I prove to this sweaty Noxema case-study in Keds that I AM NOTHING if not competent of feeding a few papers into a slot and dialing a few numbers on a keypad.
  • Minutes will pass. Tempers will flare. Buttons will be pressed threateningly with much more vigor and force than necessary.
  • Finally, an eerie peace will settle over the Green Hills Kinko’s as the little scrolling fax screen tells me timorously: “Faxing…Complete?” (My violent nature has apparently caused this skilled, finely-tuned machine to question and doubt it’s own abilities—and rightly so.)
  • Blood pressures will then begin to lower, but only momentarily, as I eject my credit card from the charge box to see a grand total of $4.50 for the entire endeavor. Four dollars and fifty cents for a mêlée with technology and a couple of documents which I was pretty sure I’d signed in the wrong place anyways.

Then I tripped over the welcome mat as I was exiting the store.

And there you have it, everyone. All in a day’s work.

Hayley’s Favorite Things.

In honor of the annual Oprah’s Favorite Things episode that aired Friday, I have begun an ongoing list of my favorite things. After I was able to recuperate from the sheer terror of this:


…I commenced my own list. But this is just the tip of the iceberg.

1. LinkedIn:

On Twitter, I am no one. On LinkedIn, I AM SOMEONE.

I have a volatile relationship with Twitter—joining, quitting then joining again—all because of my insecurities due to my lack of followers.

Lady Gaga has 7,143, 558 followers; I have 65. I realize meat dresses do wonders in regards to boosting Twitter followings, as do ongoing debates over one’s status as a hermaphrodite. So maybe it’s my own fault—I guess this is what I get for being so blatantly female (except for this time in my life):


In the heat of the moment, I’m ashamed to say I’ve firmly tweeted out ultimatums to the Twitterverse, threatening to remove myself once and for all if I didn’t garner more fans STAT. Then, upon seeing violence/verbal abuse wasn’t doing the trick, I tried a different approach by tweeting, “I feel very self-conscious over my lackluster number of Twitter followers.” In my experiences, guilt trips have always worked in the past, especially when you have some sort of ammo on which to build them (…like being 14 and overhearing your father telling his work friends that you were a “mistake.” Years later, he still maintains he actually meant “not planned” and that “mistake” had just slipped out by accident. That’s like meaning “tolerable” and saying “Miley Cyrus” instead. I’m not buying it, Tom. Time to up the ante for the 9th year in a row this Christmas.)

Needless to say, my efforts were all in vain and I am still sitting at a disheartening 65.

On the other, more self-righteous hand, I have a solid 98 (and counting) LinkedIn followers. (I know some of you will argue that on LinkedIn they are not considered “followers,” and to you I will say, “Kindly STFU. Remember, I overheard my father telling his friends that I was a mistake. Therefore, they are considered followers.”)

I have spent minutes, half-hours even, typing in my “Present Job Title” and “College Degree.” I have tediously outlined my previous work experience, dutifully reporting all the way back to my days as Secretary at Texas Stud Weld & Fastener, Inc. (my father’s stud-welding company, where he likes to refer to himself as “The Texas Stud” and rides around the office parking lot in a used golf cart he found on eBay). I have the entire layout perfected, and I am vaguely peeved but mostly flattered that people are probably using my profile page as a blueprint for their own, less impressive page.

2. Spray Butter and Splenda:

I will openly admit I have a sick dependence on Splenda and spray butter. I have even found a way to incorporate the both of them into every single meal, should I really want to.


A current favorite is a Gas Station Apple* sprayed with spray butter, dipped (i.e. coated) in Splenda. And zero calories?? Talk about hitting the nutritional jackpot! Every time I spoon out a pint of Splenda into my morning coffee I get this giddy, naughty feeling inside, like I’m doing something so wrong that tastes so right. (Fun Fact: There is never a time when I don’t have at least a couple of stolen Splenda packets on hand in my purse. Never. When you see me, ask to see inside my purse.)

I am not quite sure what is in these products, and I am not quite sure I care to find out. I’m a little confused as to how it can look and taste like sugar, yet not be sugar; or how it can be yellow with buttery undertones, yet not be butter at all. But, maybe some things just aren’t meant to be understood—like the reason why Katherine Heigl is still here.

Yep. Still here.

I ventured into Trader Joe’s once but got too intimidated by the surging levels of healthiness and coolness of my fellow shoppers that I turned right back around and saw myself out the door and on to the Food Town across the street. (Nothin’ classier than your local Food Town, where you’re always sure to find an abundance of neck tattoos and dirty mop water.) I don’t know, I just felt more at home there. Plus, it’s more to-the-point: signs like “Fresh Organic Soy Legumes” are replaced with “Cheap Ham N’ Stuff.”

*I’ve been known to do some convenient produce shopping at gas stations, thus purchasing my Gas Station Apples. Don’t judge me; it takes half the time as a grocery store AND I can get a blue slushie. When Kroger installs a blue slushie machine next to the check-out counter, I’ll reconsider.)

3. Dirty Rap Music:

The dirtier, the better—I’m from Houston, I have an excuse.

If I had to listen to one genre of music for the rest of my life, it would be dirty rap music, with an emphasis on Gucci Mane and Swishahouse.

I cannot explain it, nor do I have to explain it. (Do you think Weezy has to explain the AK 47 tattoo on his neck, or the MOB (Money Over Bitches) tattoo on his chest, or the smiley face tattoo on the inside of his lower lip, or the ultra-violet star tattoos on the side of his face (google it)?? NO. He doesn’t. You know why? ‘Cause gangsters don’t explain. They just tat it up. They also probably do a bunch of other dangerous, semi-illegal stuff. But for this post, we’re just going to focus on them permanently embedding ridiculous images on their flesh.)


The best thing about dirty rap is the fact that it evokes zero emotion in me. If you know me, then you know that within the first four seconds of a sad country song I am bawling my eyes out. This is not an exaggeration. While the rest of my friends were enjoying the excitement of the CMA awards a few weeks ago, sitting in the stadium while Carrie Underwood belted out “Mama’s Song,” I was the emotionally unstable lunatic hunched down in my seat quietly sobbing while simultaneously texting my own mama who, sadly, does not have her own song. (Damn you, Carrie Underwood. Damn you for making all of us other daughters look like talentless, unfeeling offspring with bad hair.)

I am not proud of it, but I was even reduced to tears one pathetic afternoon when a Jessica Simpson song came on the radio. It was her hit, “With You,” and when she sang, “With nothin’ but a T-shirt on, I’ve never felt so beautiful, baby as I do now that I’m with you,” it was ALL OVER. I was embarrassed for myself, but mostly I was embarrassed for my friends riding in the car with me, trying (in vain) to ignore the audible weeping coming from the back seat.

This is why I listen to dirty rap. With this genre, I never have to deal with heartbreak or sadness, unless you count the one about the ho who wasn’t bringing in enough dollah billz and was dumped by her pimp. But honestly, I have no sympathy for her because she should have stepped her pimp game up a bit once she realized there was a steady decline in biznass. Hos these days…

But really, how can you not love a song that yells, “Yeah, she know she bad, bad as a motha f*ckah” over and over to a driving bass beat, with other random rappers arbitrarily yelling indecipherable expletives over the singer in the background?

There are also valuable lessons to be learned from these songs. For example, Gucci Mane speaks fondly of his ladyfriend, saying, “She my shorty, she gon’ hold my forty.” Now this man knows how to make a woman feel needed—if it weren’t for her, who would be there to hold his malt liquor? I would gladly hold a forty for my man, especially one as appreciative as Gucci Mane. It’s just so refreshing in an age of such rampant disrespect, and it’s definitely a breath of fresh air compared to all the other jokers who take us for granted.

Definition of a gentleman.

Another reason dirty rap music is top notch is because of the music videos that accompany the songs. A prime example of this is Soulja Boy’s “Turn My Swag On,” which consists largely of a 19-year-old Soulja Boy rubbing money all over his body and jumping up and down on a bed. We also get to tag along as he completes such riveting endeavors as brushing his teeth and then pouring himself a big bowl of cereal. It’s fascinating though, because he is a millionaire and is infinitely more successful than any of us could ever fathom being. And, because he said this: “Skeet Skeet Skeeted on that hoe yea boy, I make it rain, Shawty dont do me, I don’t play no games.” Well said, Soulja.

You Will Never Be As Rich As Him.

I once met Paul Wall at a UofH football game back in 2003. He was wearing a wife beater and had six golden teeth and there were women in bikinis surrounding him. It was everything I ever dreamed it would be.