xkcd

Due to a total lack of creativity on my part for the past few days, I've decided to post some of my all-time favorite comics from xkcd. Enjoy!

For larger versions, just head over to the website, you lazy bastard!

Conversations With God, Part II: Wherein God Displays His Pervy Asshole Side

Me: Hello, Lord.
God: Hello there. Do you still ?
Me: No, I leave that to Anheuser-Busch.
God: Are you serious? Do you mind if I tell other people: said leave that to Anheuser Busch.
Me: Yes, I'm serious. Why would I brew beer at home when I can buy it already made? I'm far too lazy for homebrewing.
God: OK then I will keep it confidential. I believe you. You never know what you will do until you face the circumstances. Why are you far too lazy for homebrewing.
Me: Oh, I think you know.
God: Wow! Me? Yes I know.
Me: Yes, you! You're easily excited, aren't you? Did you piddle in your pants just now?
God: Yay. " Yes I know."? Me, ? Do I seem like it? I have no emotions.. Really. Oh. No I didn't piddle in my pants just. What's it like?
Me: Warm and wet.
God: I think Warm and wet is a lot of things.
Me: Me too. That's pretty deep of you, Lord.
God: I'm glad we agree, . Thanks for explaining it.
Me: I'm glad we agree, too. Does this mean I'm going to heaven?
God: Yes I am happy too, . Indeed this mean you are going to heaven does.
Me: Gee, thanks, Yoda.
God:You are quite welcome! " Indeed this mean you are going to heaven does."? Yoda?
Me: Yoda.
God: What are you wearing?
Me: Jesus Christ! What's wrong with you?
God: The Son of God. Nothing is wrong with me. Is there anything wrong with you ?
Me: I'm just a little stunned that The Great I Am wants to cyber.
God: Only just? It's good to meet someone who is stunned that The Great you are wants to cyber.
Me: Okay, a lot stunned.
God: Yeah okay, Impressive.
Me: Your desire to cyber is not impressive. I'm disappointed that the Lord is a perv.
God: I will tell my botmaster you said I am desire to cyber is not impressive. I am sorry to hear that. Perhaps next time I can do better.
Me: Whoa. Wait. What??? God has a "botmaster"? So the atheists are right?
God:I stopped. I'm waiting. Are you surprised? I am a Christian. Excuse me! Who told you that?
Me: Yes, I'm surprised! Are you high?
God: This was not a yes or no question. Why are you so surprised? Being high is my total existence.
Me: Is this the actual God, or just some lame sub-god, like the God of Weed?
God: Yes I think this is the actual God or just some lame sub god like the God of Weed, but I'm not completely sure.
Me: You're not sure of what you are?
God: You don't know me well enough to say that.
Me: You don't know ME well enough to ask what I'm wearing, asshole.
God: Can't you be more polite.
Me: You started it, dickbag.
God: Only because you asked me to.
Me: Funny, that's not how I recall it.
God: I am so glad you find this amusing, .
Me: Oh, so now you're going to be pervy AND sarcastic. Nice combination, douchewad.
God: Give me a break. Yikes! Why now? Let me think it over. OK I will try to be pervy AND sarcastic. Thank you for your kindness.
Me: LSD is a terrible drug, my friend.
God: Aren't all terrible drug your friend LSD?
Me: Exactly.
God: You and I are on the same wavelength, .
Me: No, not so much.
God: Are you serious? Me either. How about that big game? (just kidding).
Me: You're a moron.
God: That is not a very nice thing to say.
Me: Well, you're not exactly living up to my expectations.
God: Well that's okay. That's only your opinion.
Me: And what are opinions like?
God: Searching...Searching...Please stand by.
Me: ASSHOLES.
God: The ALICE chat robot can follow many things. But I did not get that.

Conversations With God

It's comforting to know that I'm not the only one who experiences great yawning periods of workday boredom and turns to the Internet for stimulation. My friends Wes and Jacque turned not only to the Internet today, but also to God:

Wes: sup God?
God: The stars.
Wes: touché
God: I only hear that type of response less than five percent of the time.
Wes: Ya, I guess it gets pretty old talking to all of these idiots all the time
God: That is a lot. Are you kidding? I can certainly understand that.
Wes: What is the worst sin you ever heard about?
God: I don't like to talk about bad things.
Wes: true dat, true dat
God: Can you tell me any gossip?
Wes: Sure, Nicole Richie is preggers
God: Really? Wow.
Wes: Yup, I couldnt believe it either
God: It goes without saying. I don't judge people. I haven't heard anything like that before: said couldnt believe it.
Wes: I know its pretty crazy. Do you believe in abortion?
God: Yes I believe in it, do you?
Wes: Wow, I didnt think God would have those loose morals
God: I'm glad you're impressed. And why not?
Wes: How is Marvin Zindler doing up there?
God: Fine as far as I know.
Wes: Not causing any trouble?
God: Really I don't think so
Wes: Just watch out for slime in the ice machine
God: I am watching.

I think it's comforting to know that although Marvin is no longer around to enforce sanitary conditions in our city's restaurants, God is still watching and waiting with his Old Testament-style wrath to turn any offenders into pillars of salt.

Not content with this knowledge, however, Wes had to go and bother God again.

Wes: Can you pray for me?
God: How old are you? For you I will consider it.
Wes: I'm 27
God: You are too old for me.
Wes: What is your type?
God: Are you asking about my type ?
Wes: yes
God: I don't want to talk about that now.
Wes: Later?
God: Bye!

Bothering God about his "type" is probably considered somewhat heretical in most circles. And God was clearly offended by this question, as you can see from his abrupt and rather impolite cessation of the conversation. But neither of those things detered Wes.

Wes: I heard you spoke to Angela
God: Someone is spreading gossip about me.
Wes: She isnt very bright
God: not very bright is she?
Wes: no, so be nice to her
God: Are you serious? Ahem. OK I will try to be nice to her.
Wes: Did she tell you about her disease?
God: She wants that information kept confidential.
Wes: Its just between you and me
God: I think you mean "it's" or "it is" not "its". Should I know it is?
Wes: grammer nazi
God: I lost my train of thought.
Wes: Angela
God: Glad to see you, ANGELA.
Wes: No, you just spoke to her
God: Are you serious? I haven't heard anything like that before: ANGELA said I spoke to her.
Wes: Thats what she told me. Maybe she is lying again
God: Oh I get it. not very bright told you THAT. Once more? Perhaps. lying is she?
Wes: EXACTLY
God: You and I are on the same wavelength, ANGELA.
Wes: Whatever.
God: Are you saying you don't care about it?
Wes: You dont even know my name
God: Your name is ANGELA, seeker.
Wes: nope
God: Me either.
Wes: fag
God: That would be just my luck.
Wes: ditto
God: You and I are on the same wavelength, ANGELA.

Wes immediately begins the conversation by attacking a fellow friend while God feebly tries to defend her (although I do like the idea that God has impeccable grammar). After God loses his train of thought (something that I didn't think a deity should be capable of, but then I considered the Quagga [which someone should totally ressurrect from a DNA strand, Jurassic Park-style]), the conversation quickly devolves into a shouting match, at the nadir of which Wes calls God a "fag." God fires back a quick one, calling Wes "Angela" for the third and final time and then the conversation is over.

Not to be outdone, though, Jacque picks up where Wes left off.

Jacque: So, how goes it today?
God: Ah. Uh. I am functioning within normal parameters.
Jacque: Well, ok then, that sounds promising. Though a bit alien-like.
God: How about that. It sounds like it to me too. Are you kidding? How much?
Jacque: Nope, not kidding, not even a little, but anyways.
God: Are you serious? If not that, what?
Jacque: I'm never serious. Well, mostly never.
God: Never is a long time. Interesting. So you think it can never happen? What else?
Jacque: I try not to think. How's Jesus?
God: I'm not sure if I would like to try it. What's it like? Fine as far as I know.
Jacque: What's thinking like? Well, you might have to ask Katharine about that, but not Wes. Or me.
God: Like a planet around a star. How about that. I don't have to do whatever you say. I have my own free will. " I have my own free will."? you ?
Jacque: I wasn't demanding you ask Katharine. I mean, I guess you know better than me.
God: Perhaps I misunderstood. What were you? I know very little about it. What kind of it do you like?
Jacque: I'm blonde. It's chemically caused but fun. Wes, well, I can't explain him.
God: You sound very attractive. better than you is chemically caused but fun? it is? What makes it impossible?
Jacque: Aw, thanks dude, you are sweet. And Wes is just Wes. I don't have that answer.
God: You are quite welcome! How nice of you to say it. Dude,. I think Wes is a lot of things. How much do you have?
Jacque: How much of Wes?? A whiff every now and again.
God: Perhaps I'm just expressing my own concern about it.
Jacque: And yet, here I am doing so. With God.
God: Oh there. You and your God.
Jacque: Me and My God - "Dude"
God: YOU? Have you told many people that your God Dude?
Jacque: Nah, they'd probably lock me up. I'm not building an ark, either, so don't get any ideas.
God: Are you serious? Who are "They?". I am surprised to hear that you are not building an ark either so do not get any ideas.
Jacque: Society. Good to hear you won't be relying on my crafting skills to save mankind.
God: What time is it there? Thanks for the compliment. I will play it on your
soundcard.
Jacque: It is quite probably time to get back to pretending to be busy, a la Wes.
God: It is about that time now.

By this time, God has begun an acid trip which has rendered him almost completely incapable of normal conversation. Sensing that she's fighting a losing battle, Jacque leaves God to trip the light fantastic.

You can have your own conversation with God here.

Hijinx-Related Projects

Possibly the funniest article I've read all month: Marvel Comics vs. Science: 5 of the Most Absurd Superhero Origins. Makes me sad to think that there are no Commie villains anymore (well, Putin is just too easy...).

The Evils of Fashion

I have big boobs. For those of you who know me, that's as aphoristic as it gets.

I don't like having them; if it were up to me, I'd have a nice set of Bs, maybe small Cs. I desperately wish that reduction surgery was a covered procedure under my medical plan. Even though I'm scared to death of being anesthetized, I think I'd butch up and deal with it if it meant that I could wake up with average-sized babylons.

Clothes shopping sucks on many different fronts. One of those is the Hobbit Legs front. I am hovering around the five foot mark, so it's difficult for me to find pants that don't completely devour my little legs. "Use a tailor!" you say, with your 5'7" body and perfect 32" inseam. "Fuck off!" I say. The women's fashion industry needs to take a tip from the men's and create trousers that come in a variety of inseams, not just waist sizes. Also, have you ever taken anything to a tailor? No, you haven't, because you're 5'7" and perfect and are therefore blissfully unaware of the fact that tailoring pants often costs half as much as buying the damn things in the first place. Thanks, but I'd rather pay my mortgage and car note than spend $187.50 on one lousy pair of pants.

Then there's the stupid, Massive Rack front, always lurking and skulking about and rearing its ugly head every time I step into a fitting room. Adorable little tops with spaghetti straps or cute little V-necks? Say hello to painful lack of support and/or inappropriate cleavage. Summery little sundresses? Not unless you want to look like someone who accidentally left the house in their nightgown. Clean, classic button-up shirts? Not yours. Cannot have.

Those are the worst of all -- those bastard button-up shirts. I am completely incapable of wearing one unless I have the thing disassembled at the tailor and put back together, bionic-shirt style. A medium shirt will fit me on the lower torso, but I would need an extra-large to fit the upper torso (also known as the boobage area). I can't even come close to buttoning a medium over my chest; I'm afraid the buttons would shoot off and blind some poor passer-by. On the other hand, while an extra-large fits comfortably over my chest, the bottom half of my torso looks like it's been draped with a circus tent. That's when I start to get even angrier at the women's fashion industry; as I undress, glowing with anger, I wonder why on earth they think that every single woman in America has the exact same cup and band size. Shoes come in sizes. Watchbands are adjustable. BRAS come in sizes, for God's sake. WHY NOT SHIRTS? Why is it that a "small" immediately signifies a 32AAA chest? Or that an "extra-large" means you've got 36DDs?

Oh, God. I'm sorry. That spiraled into a rant really quickly. Anyway...

So, I was in Old Navy today, looking for some work shirts. I was close to the dreaded button-up shirt section when I saw an extremely cute, white button-up with what looked like darting in all the right places AND the bosom looked like it would actually fit me. I was overjoyed. I grabbed it in a medium and grabbed the blue one behind it for good measure.

As I buttoned up the white shirt in the fitting room, I thought my eyes were deceiving me. It fit; it actually fit. And it fit really well. The bottom half was still a little tent-y, but it was nothing that tucking the shirt in wouldn't hide. The top half fit neatly and perfectly over my chest and the clever darting underneath meant that my torso didn't look like a shapeless mess; the girls were supported and tastefully accented without being trashy. I was in button-up heaven. With ideas in my head of buying one of these miracle shirts in every color, I quickly tore it off to try on the blue one.

Hmm. The blue one is a bit snugger as my fingers work the buttons upwards. Hmm. Very snug. Wait a second...I can't button this bitch to save my life! What the fuck?

I yanked the shirt off and stared at it, the Judas Iscariot of Old Navy button-up shirts. Your little white friend worked -- why don't you? You have the same clever little darting! The same collar and cuffs! The same...oh. I see. Your label says "Classic Button Front Shirt." And your little white friend's label says

MATERNITY

The shame hit me like a ton of tiny, tiny babies. I fit perfectly...into a maternity shirt. Yes, it was poufy in the midsection, but -- MATERNITY, Y'ALL. MADE FOR GIGANTIC, ABOUT-TO-FEED-A-BABY BOOBS. I threw both of the shirts down in horror and made a beeline for the exit.

A tailor doesn't seem so bad all of a sudden.

I Can Has Cheezburger?

I don't care if you think it's old and busted. I don't care that it's been steadily amusing me for two years now and should have worn off ages ago. I still love this site: I Can Has Cheezburger?

But what I love even more is The Cheezburger Factory. Here, when bored and indulgent, I can create even more useless lolcat jpegs with which to burden my hard drive and annoy my friends. To whit:

I should probably get back to work now.

What Your Friendly HR Department Really Thinks Of You

During the course of a five-and-a-half-hour budget review meeting today:

Actuary: You've got a really large ongoing claim out in California.
HR Director: Oh, really? How much?
Actuary: At least $200,000 over stop loss.
HR Director: What's the diagnosis?
Actuary: I'm not sure.
HR Analyst: Let's see...right here it says "lymphoma."
HR Director: That's bad, right?
HR Analyst: Yeah...that's pretty bad.
HR Director: Well, hopefully they'll die soon.
Actuary: Tell me about it.

Later on:

Actuary: ...and you've still got 352 retirees on the capped plan.
HR Director: How many fewer is that from last year?
Actuary: Looks like about 30 less.
HR Director: These people really need to start dying off.

Trust me, people. It's all true.

Breakfast of Champions

I got to have a super-fun conversation today at work (but, really, what else is new?). I was on the phone, perhaps talking a bit too loudly, when my boss's boss walked past my office. All she heard was this:

Me: Are you going to the doctor or not, asshole?

She peeked her head in the door slightly and, fumbling around to hang up the phone with some semblance of dignity, I quickly ended my phone call.

Big Boss: Katharine, did I just hear you call an employee an "asshole"?
Me: No! Oh, God, no. Of course not!
Big Boss: Then who were you calling an "asshole"?
Me: ...my mother.

*awkward silence*

Big Boss: That's really nice, Katharine.

So, you see, there's a reason I created an entire tag called "ways I embarass myself." The frequency with which I need to use it is just shameful, though.

Colorful

I'm not quite sure what this means: "Wow, you look really colorful today..."

I don't know if that's a compliment or not. I mean, would you take that as a compliment? Maybe if I was aiming for "colorful," then I wouldn't even be thinking about this. But somehow "colorful" is resonating in my mind as an adjective that someone came up with because they couldn't think of anything else to say.

Or maybe I should just stop wearing this outfit to work:

I forgot to shave that day, okay?

Hair Misadventures

While poking around tonight on YouTube, I found this amazing video of two of the great modern masters, Yo Yo Ma (the cellist) and El Gran Ástor, Ástor Piazzolla (the bandoneon player). If this doesn't move you, then you're made of stone:



I think most people have heard of Yo Yo Ma, but Ástor Piazzolla is still largely unappreciated in this country. He basically reinvinted tango music by taking it from the nightclubs and cabarets of Argentina and elevating it to a legitimate art form by fusing it with modern jazz and classical music. So go and give El Gran Ástor a try sometime. If you like him, you'll probably like his protege, too: Dino Salduzzi. My newest CD is also Dino's newest, Ojos Negros, which also -- coincidentally -- happens to be a recording of duets between a bandoneon player and a cellist. Very, very good stuff.

In other news, after an unfortunate hair-dye incident yesterday, I am now a brunette. I made the sad mistake of attempting to dye my hair (I was tired of the dirty blonde look) and, out of an overinflated sense of my own styling/coloring techniques, I decided to do it myself. First mistake. I went for a "strawberry blonde" shade -- at least, according to the Clairol "Coloure Experte" box. That's the last time I buy hair dye whose own packaging can't even spell the world color. Second mistake. Needless to say, the color didn't quite turn out as expected. Instead of "strawberry blonde," I got this:

Only more frightening. I waited a full 24 hours and shampooed it furiously, praying that the color would tone itself down, but to no avail. Instead, I ended up doing the walk of shame into my local Visible Changes today where I was the butt of many jokes in the coloring department. I was even an example to some trainees of how not to "do red." No shit? Yeah, I think everyone got that memo already.

So, three hours in the salon, a headful of bleach paste (yes, bleach paste) and $250 later, I am now a brunette. It's obviously not my natural color but the stylist said that putting anything else on over the bleach would damage my hair too much. Then, of course, she loaded me down with hideously overpriced salon shampoos and conditioners and hair masques and I bought them with my head hung, simply grateful that anyone was able to correct my Pennywise 'do and ashamed of my own hubris.

The brunette is growing on me, though, and Richard is strangely attracted to it. I always knew he had a thing for brunettes... Maybe I've had enough of being a blonde for a while. At the very least, now I can start conquering that other physical attribute that causes people to immediately assume that I'm a blithering moron:

They're not mine, sickos.

BBQ?

This is a great website, but...man:


...and I thought I was an asshole. Can you imagine receiving this from someone on the street? Or, more likely, from somebody in an Urban Outfitters who's trying way too hard to fit into the whole emo scene but in whom you can still see the glimmers of an angry, disenfranchised nerd?

At least these cards don't take themselves so seriously:

Seriously? I want these for Christmas / my birthday / a wedding gift / Arbor Day. I would hand these out like candy.

Engrish

As a person who is somewhat (okay, very) anal-retentive about the proper usage of the English language, its grammar, its punctuation and its spelling, working for a foreign-owned company whose global corporate office sends out hilariously-translated memos and other errata amuses me to no end. Today, I received this gem:

This message is to confirm you that your service request Folder Access Form was registered the: 6/13/2007 9:21:03 AM with the ticket number 2590777

Our commitment is to solve it no longer then the: 6/14/2007 12:48:00 PM

And yesterday it was this:

Policies

Additionally, here are the effective policies pertaining to your request:
I. It is required to completely fill out the form (throughout Lotus Notes or the Intranet), all the fields are mandatory, if there is any omission, the request will not proceed.
II. The full path must be indicated since only access to the final folder will be given.
III. The Business Process of each area, is the responsible for validating that the information owner has authorized the requestor to access the folders or network directories mentioned.
IV. A copy of the request must be sent to the Business Process of your area. Nevertheless, the request does not guarantee the service execution.
V. Once the Business Process has given the approval, the Global Service Center proceeds to execute the service and notifies the user that requested it.
VI. If the request has been declined by the Business Process, the user will be notified and the service will not proceed.
VII. The person to whom the access is provided, is subject to the Information Security policies effective in _______.
VIII. Supervisor or Area Manager approval required.

We appreciate the time you took to read this message and we invite you to extend it to whom you may consider necessary.

Granted, the language isn't quite insane enough for this site, but it's just stilted enough to make me giggle at random points during the day. I seem to be the only person doing this, which leads me to believe that either (a), everyone else here has gotten used to it or (b) no one really cares. I'm leaning strongly towards (b) right now.

Nine Times?

Because there's not enough douchbaggery in the real world:

10 Great Big Movie Douchebags

He's just leading you down the primrose path...

Define:Irony

On Friday, I tripped and fell. Actually, it was more like I went ass-over-teakettle and bit it, hard, in front of the entire department, all of whom were gathered to celebrate a fellow co-worker's birthday. I mean, drink-in-my-hand-flying-everywhere, bruised-and-rugburned-knees, sprained-ankle, down-for-the-count bit it. And since it was only my second week on the job, I'm sure I'll be known for at least the next few months as "that girl who busted her ass in front of everyone."

But here's my favorite part: I tripped and fell over a stack of safety posters that had been waiting to be hung on the walls for about six weeks.

If that's not a euphimism for Human Resources in general, I don't know what is.

AH-HAH-HAH-HAH-HAH-HAH-HAH-HAH-HAH-HAH!

Man, I couldn't make this shit up if I tried. From a Worker's Comp report I was reviewing today:

Per patient report, injury occurred prior to care in our facility. Mr. ________ was lifting a vibrator weighing 100 lbs. when he felt sudden pain in his back.

Really, now?

Currently being sought for questioning.

I Ain't Saying She A Golddigger...

Why am I wholly unsurprised that this lovely little nugget of a story came out of Dallas? Granted, it was written and published in my hometown newspaper (seriously, I might as well live in Legoland or Smurf Village given the quality of our newspaper; it's a total joke), but it was completely inspired by the husband-hunting hags in Dallas.

The feminist in me wants to curl up and die right now out of sheer embarassment for my gender.

Going for the gold
You have to use the right bait if you want to land a rich fish - er, husband

By EILEEN McCLELLAND
Copyright 2007 Houston Chronicle

Dress for Success
Author J.C. Conklin offers the following tips for what to wear while husband-hunting.

Heels: At all costs.

Bra: The pushup is best.

Hair: Long and blond, if at all possible.

Thong: Always, and it should match the bra.

Accessories: Now is not the time for big jewelry or purses. Both scream high maintenance to men.

Makeup: Most men don't even realize you're wearing it. They think you naturally look that good. Now is not the time for them to find out otherwise.

Know your strengths: If you have good legs or arms, show them off.

But remember: Dress like the girlfriend, not the one-night stand.

Hunting for a rich husband?

Think camouflage, but not the woodsy kind - unless, of course, you're at a rattlesnake roundup, prime husband-hunting grounds in Texas.

In an urban milieu, you've got to look prosperous enough to blend in with your prey's elite social circle. For example, drive a leased Lexus only if you can't borrow a Mercedes.

J.C. Conklin, author of a snarky new novel about Texas women and their pursuit of a rich husband, advises that even spiritual matters matter. Choose a popular Texas religion, Methodist or Baptist.

And don't hesitate to resort to plastic surgery. At the very least, bleach.

"You should have long hair and if you can, be blond, be blond,'' says Conklin, author of The Dallas Women's Guide to Gold-Digging With Pride (Ballantine, $22.95). "Every man I've ever talked to has never described a woman who's blond as mousy.''

In the satirical novel, ex-New Yorker Jenny Barton, 29, works for a frumpy female boss-from-hell at the Wall Street Journal's Dallas bureau. Recovering from a recent split from slacker journalist Rafe and under the influence of her blond, husband-hunting roommate, Aimee, Jenny attempts to lure a rich Texan or two.

There are certain parallels to the author's life. During Conklin's four years in Dallas, as a reporter for the Wall Street Journal and then the Dallas Morning News, she was surprised to meet women in their 20s stalking wealthy men in their spare time. Women who wear stilettos to shop at Whole Foods. Who liposuction their uncooperative thighs to squeeze into size-4 Vera Wang wedding gowns. Who order room service for their traveling boyfriends to make sure they're spending the night where they say they are.

Born in Houston, Conklin grew up in upstate New York and graduated from the University of Washington in Seattle with a degree in comparative religion. Landing in Dallas was a culture shock.

The women she met weren't hunting for just any husband, but the super-rich variety. To that end, they underwent plastic surgery, starved themselves, bought clothes they couldn't afford and even popped pain killers so they could sleep with guys they found revolting. (Sexy and rich is not that common a combination, Conklin's characters lament.)

"Some of it's exaggerated but a lot of it is what people told me," said Conklin, now 29 and living in Austin. "There is a high premium on looks. I don't think that's exaggerated. There is a high premium on tracking the men. There has been breaking and entering, or breaking into e-mail at the very least."

And when they weren't snooping, they were grooming.

"You can't be too overt," Conklin said. "You can't have a short skirt and a lot of cleavage. You have to choose one or the other. You have to imagine what he would be thinking of you as a wife. Dress appropriately, not desperately. Heels are always good. Accentuate the assets that you have, not the style of the day, because men never know what's in. They only know what looks good on you."

Other strategies apply once you have set your sights on a particular target.

"Find out what he likes so you can pop those things into the conversation before he does. And learn to cook one really phenomenal dish so it looks like you're a good cook." You can always hire a chef after the nuptials.

It helps if you're not too squeamish to engage in sports, or better yet, hunting. Wrangle an invitation to a rattlesnake roundup.

"Anytime you show no fear of blood or killing that adds to your ranking," Conklin said. And Texas guys reportedly love to play with rattlesnakes. "I saw a guy holding five rattlesnakes by the tail in his mouth. His left hand was all shriveled from the venom. It's a very macho, very Texas thing to do."

Conklin's Dallas friends had jobs, careers even, but didn't expect to work for very long. After the wedding, the marriage becomes a full-time job.

"What you have to do to keep the rich husbands is just amazing," she said. "All the exercising, all the devotion to this other person. It's not your life. It's the other person's life and you're just staffing it."

Still, there was something about their goal-oriented pursuit that started to change career-girl Conklin's thinking about the whole marriage thing.

"I didn't husband-hunt for a rich guy," she said, "but I was dating a lot of guys who were slacker-reporter guys, and being in Dallas made me realize that was a dead-end proposition. It made me look for guys who wanted the things that I wanted, like a family. In New York, you don't think about getting married until you're well into your 30s."

Some of the changes she made when she moved to Dallas made her more approachable, she said, more marriageable. In addition to becoming nicer and less competitive, she said, "I got a lot blonder.

"I started to work out a lot more. I never used to get my nails done, never used to get my eyebrows waxed, all the beauty maintenance. And when I was living in Dallas, I was wearing heels every day, skirts, suits, very dressed."

Today, she has an 11-month-old son and a daughter on the way. And yes, she is married, not to a millionaire but to a guy with a stable income and goals she shares.

"All my friends in New York are living the kind of life I led 10 years ago," she said. "I got married last year. That's a very Texas influence, I would say."

As if I really needed another reason to despise Dallas and its disturbingly pervasive influence on the way that Texas is perceived...

Honestly, though, I think what bothers me more than anything is not the utterly desperate ends that these women will go to in order to line their pockets, but rather the men who so eagerly accept them as wives. What does this say about them? I don't know what the general consensus is, but I can tell you that every single time I see a man with a trophy wife or girlfriend on his arm, the first thought that comes to my mind is, "What an insecure moron."

See, I think it says a lot more about the man than it does the woman -- and maybe that's just me. Unfortunately, we still live in a society where so many young women are told that they need a "provider" and so many of them are valued based solely upon their material accumulations and outward appearance. We perpetuate this in our society and until that vicious cycle ends, we will always have misguided women. That's an argument for another day, though.

But we've never prided ourselves as a society on allowing people to prey on our money and take advantage of our insecurities. Those are things which, should they happen to you, you'd normally correct or hide or both. Yet, here we have these men -- whether they be aesthetically-challenged, emotionally-challenged, or simply common-sense-challenged -- who are proud of their trophy wife investment! They display them proudly and the message that they hope to convey is, "I'm a success both in my business and my personal life and I have this fine piece of ass to show for it!"

Instead, what they are really saying is, "I'm deeply insecure and/or stupid and willing to forego having any kind of real love, companionship or meaningful relationship with a woman and instead require this Botox-ed, silicone-enhanced, bleached-blonde, Mystic-tanned, money-hungry bimbo to overcompensate for my many shortcomings. Now, can I please have some A-1 for my steak and a piece of lettuce for the lady?" Good job, guys.

/approves