Art Huxtable Gets Catfished – Lives to Tell the Tale

Originally Posted: Friday, June 6, 2014

Artie got catfished for the first time like 4 hours ago and will now recount his tale. This might be written shittily. I’m on 90 minutes of sleep and 2 Xannies. Will fix later. maybe:

I met this 21-year-old chick on Tinder who lives pretty close. Her pics were decent-looking face pics, most of which were with other girls. Two red flags:

  1. Only face pics: These bitches are filter, lighting, and angle wizards.
  2. Mostly group shots: They post pictures with their more attractive friends thinking guys will just go with the flow. No bitch, I gotta know what I’m getting into (lel).

Aside: Protip for checking IDs of girls who may or may not be of legal boinking age: Throw casually into pre-boink conversation: “I just got a new ID. Look how shit this picture is (my picture is str8 gorgie btw). Half the time, they’ll volunteer theirs for comparison. If they don’t, just ask. Or just skip the bullshit and ask to see it. Make some shit up about hair color; it doesn’t fucking matter.

But definitely do card a chick who looks young, is wearing any high school apparel, generally comes off like a retarded high schooler, etc. These bitches are crazy and will get your ass locked up. But try to stay away from fresh high school grads overall. They fucking suck in bed. Often times not literally. lawl. Met an 18-year-old chick who was DTF within 45 minutes of meeting, but though giving head was gross. lol okay whatever.

Anyway, I forgot how we started talking, but the conversation transitioned to texting and got sexual quickly. This bitch is fucking filthy and I was convinced she had mental problems within like 4 texts. That’s never stopped me before, so I kept on truckin’. Plus, there was talk of a threesome with her friend, who was confirmed real and moderately attractive.

I was never into sexting or trading pics. I just use texting for logistics; and sometimes to amuse myself. I’m not looking for a pen pal. But this bitch would send me literally a paragraph of filthy, nasty shit at all hours. I don’t know when she sleeps. Then she’d text me, ‘Fuck you, never contact me again’ after I failed to respond within 10 minutes. Bitches need hobbies, I swear.

Right, so we started talking on Tuesday, I think. I hadn’t had sex since Sunday, I think. The testiculars were growing heavy like a Chevy. I knew this chick wasn’t gonna be a dime, but the face shots looked cute, she was a freak (fun), and I honestly am not that picky for casual sex. My pickiness is inversely correlated with [(Time since last ejaculation)(~1+(0.2+BAC))] with a lower limit on the 1-10 scale of like 6. Maybe 5.5. Yo, imagine if we had a 10 star scale instead of just 1-10 points or 5 stars. I’m a fucking revolutionary!

Guys are like, ‘Bro, I only fuck dimes.’
First off, fuck you, no you don’t.
Second off, why? Who the fuck cares? Pussy is pussy. I’ll fuck a chubby chick as long as she still has some curves (read: concave at the sides with nice thighs, not what these fat bitches call curves. those are folds, whore) and a cute face. I’m not trying to find the mother of my son here. But when it is time for that, she’s gonna have to be a fucking perfect genetic specimen. This is necessary to perpetuate the legacy that my life will set into motion.

My reasoning: I’m fucking awesome. Definitely moreso than my faggot father (I love alliteration btw). If I can have a kid with a woman who’s a better genetic specimen and a better mother than my mom (shouldn’t be terribly difficult, sorry mom. please never see this blog), combined with being raised in a loving, two-parent household, my son will be the embodiment of greatness. Your kids will probably have to take futureorders from him.

Okay, so it’s Thursday and I’m at work. This bitch is sending me disgusting shit. That combined with going on a week of no sex and stuff from a few other chicks in the pipeline led to me spending most of the day with an erection. Oh yeah, we basically hate each other at this point and it’s agreed I’m going to ragefuck her and she’s getting poked in the bum. We agree to meet after work.

She called me on my way home. I kept the convo short and could only make out like a third of what this bitch was saying like she was using a fucking Razr flip phone from 2004. She’s clearly not straight retarded, but there is something off about her. I can’t put my finger on it. But I might put my finger in it lololo

Anyway, I tell her to give me her address. Radio silence. I get home and I’m like, fuck it, I’m gonna go work out. She texts me saying she’s feeling insecure about meeting up. I’m tired of her shit at this point and tell her to text me her address by the time I’m done working out or stop contacting me. She never hits me back and I delete her number.

Oh yeah, I have blue balls from having a boner all day at this point. Working out only reduced the intensity of my ailment by like 35%. I hit up NeighborChick (not actually my neighbor but close enough to hold the title for now) to relieve some tension. While I’m with NeighborChick, a number I don’t know calls me. I ignore it, as per SOPs. I recorded my voicemail when I was like 12 and still use it. trollolol. I ignore a couple more calls and head home.

I get home. She starts texting me. Like, a lot. The type of shit a wife who thinks her husband is cheating would text. And I had’t even met this bitch yet. Red flags all up in my grill, yo. I’m just trying to write a new song and am in a pretty decent mood and just want her to fuck off. I can’t find an app to block both calls and texts. I just silence and flip my phone and work on some music for a couple hours. Made a delicious turkey burger (no bun; that’s for fatties) with some salad too. Mixed that pink Himalayan sea salt and roasted Tabasco in. With the olive oil, crushed black pepper, apple cider vinegar, sharp cheddar melted onto the burger, and brie in the salad.

I’m done with my song at like 1AM, pop some ZMA I got in the mail that day, and head to bed. I don’t really fuck with any supplements beside fish oil, but I’m trying to get into lucid dreaming and this shit’s supposed to help. Ya boy wants to fuck a Pokemon in his sleep and cum Koolaid all over its antenna. Sue me

Look back at my phone. Bunch of missed shit. Text her to fuck off: Mistake #27. This bitch’s horniness is directly correlated with how mean I am to her. And it’s hard for me not to be. She’s an annoying retard who texts me pictures of Vicodin and Goose bottles like a fucking high schooler.

She starts writing all the nasty shit she wants to do. I’m bored and can’t sleep, so I humor myself by with some shit I know will drive her crazy. She calls me saying she’s dripping wet bla bla. My penis is growing (lol) erect. And once it’s up, it’s not going down without a fight. Fuck, why did I do that. I know this is a bad idea at this point, but I’m past the point of no return and curiosity outweighs all other feelings.

It’s 1:30 am. Pandora is gonna wake me up at 6:25am. I decide I’m going to fuck this chick. She lives 15 min away. Round trip + 90 min there = I’m back at 4 am if I leave soon. Two and a half hours sleep is plenty for a Thursday night.

I get the addy, grab some rubbers (Either this chick is just perpetually horny or a fucking gutter slut, or both, but I’m wearing like 3 rubbers at once with this one. for realsies)don’tactuallydothis, and head out. Driving at 2 am is awesome. Fuck other cars.

I get there and call her. I told her to be out of the shower and ready by the time I got there and told her my fucking ETA. I’m big on efficiency. I call her upon arrival. ‘Oh shit, give me like three minutes. I just got out of the shower.’

‘I don’t give a fuck. Just throw some shit on and come show me where to park.’ I rapid right swipe on Tinder as I wait. These are unconquered grounds.

Three minutes turn into ten. Goddamnit this bitch is no doubt applying enough makeup and cover up to kill a test chimp. Speaking with her on her fucking flip phone is infuriating. She insists she has a Galaxy. I don’t fucking care. Annunciation your shit, you cunt.

She refuses to come outside and tries to guide me in like a fucking air traffic controller. A disgusting, annoying air traffic controller. I get pissed off, park at the stop sign, and get out. She obviously can see me but won’t approach and makes me guess which house is hers in the dark. Red flags flying high as fuck. We talking some Medieval Times castle, Siege of Stalingrad, Tiananmen Square flag raising type shit

The prospect of getting catfished actually doesn’t cross my mind once. I think that I may have a knife pulled on me within the next 10 minutes, but I’m okay with and mildly excited by this possibility. Arty likes a challenge. I leave my wallet in the car.

I figure out which house is hers and start walking up the driveway. Is that a recycling bin in the middle of their garage? What odd placement.

I get closer.

Oh god. Oh god damn it. The outline of The Mountain is awkwardly looming in the shadows.

If Gollum was given 12 pounds of weed and access to a 7-11, this is what would emerge in a year.

I tactically assess the situation:

Convex on sides? Check.
Cute face? Can’t make it out clearly. 
Probably not based on how long it took her to come out. Even if so, not enough to make up for the degree of convexity.

Wants to do gross shit? Check.
Probably talks a much bigger game than she walks based on her assumed appearance and will be physically difficult to maneuver around? Check.
I had no contingency plan. I approach her and follow her toward her half-open garage door, trying to find a redeeming feature in this hobgoblin – trying to convince myself that the darkness is playing tricks on me.

We’re approaching the garage horizon; this is the moment of truth. Artie, if you cross that line, you will emerge a changed man. I can’t do it. It is not within me.

“Are you allergic to dogs?”
“I left my car unlocked.”

Swerve.
Drove home listening to Katy Perry and Lorde. long hair don’t care

I kind of regret not smashing. Or at least letting her to blow me in my car. I just got my tire pressure adjusted though. And I was afraid she’d get hungry and bite off my cock.

It would have been a flag, at least: My fattest flag ever. On the bright side, this is my first catfish. Also a flag! I can’t fucking lose.

I’m just genuinely curious as to what made this chick think I’d go through with it. Did she not see this face? Fucking gorgeous. Did she not see this body? Impeccable. Personality? Tolerable. Future prospects? Convoluted, yet bright.

Did she think that…

  1. My standards were that low, despite my undisguisable awesomeness?
  2. I was just that fucking horny? I’d rather go home, cut a hole in my memory foam mattress, and fuck that.
  3. I wouldn’t be at all upset about clearly being misled?

I’m just curious as to what the thought process of crazy bitches actually is. The female mind fucking intrigues and astounds me. Like lizards and paper clip necklaces.

She’s probably gonna see this. I hope she does. I linked her this blog in an attempt to get her to fuck off in repulsion, but it had the opposite affect. Maybe I did a good thing. Maybe I was a vessel of Raptor Jesus looking out for this girl. Maybe she hobbled back into her shack and ate some fucking celery. Jokes, son. No way celery has ever entered this creature’s refrigerator, let alone her mouth portal. But still. Maybe she jotted down “Celery” on her shopping list right under the Wonder Bread and bacon & cheese Hot Pockets.

‘But they’re high in protein and calcium!’ Maybe she’ll get her shit together, put down the Krispy Kremes, buy some running shoes, actually use them for their intended purpose, and emerge from her lair in a year as one of those former fat girls (FFGs hereon) who still has fat girl self-esteem.

Or maybe she killed herself. Haven’t heard from her since. Either way, world’s better off.
And I say that objectively, from a third-person perspective. I don’t hate fat people; I just dislike that they exist. I disagree with those who say that being fat is a choice:
We live in a society in which being fat is really easy due to advances in technology, the economy, and our societal safety net. In ancient times, corpulence was a sign of wealth and/or royalty. Motherfuckers had to work to eat. Our society also allows for the lowest common genetic denominators to reproduce. They enter their late 30s, decide they don’t want to die alone, settle, and make ugly little genetically defective babies that go on to be mediocre at best, complain to everyone about everything, and demand minimum wage hikes. And the cycle perpetuates itself. The inferior used to just die out.
So this bitch is born with shitty genes, which combined with her life experiences (probably involve parental molestation based on her texts), either directly or indirectly led to her being fat. Which leads to an increasingly defeatist attitude. The cycle is self-perpetuating. We live among walking (read: waddling) fossils: remnants of genes that should have washed out of the gene pool long ago. And these people go on to have more children, on average, than those with superior genetics. Good thing we keep them in check with McDonald’s, CNN, and sprinkles: Vice: Cry Baby of the Week


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