(英語脫口秀)(五)女生翻包包時(shí)有多鬧心

There’s a very specific way that women will search for something when we have a big bag. What do you do? You take a designated search claw… and you plunge it. Never breaking eye contact with your prey, I mean your date. Notice I haven’t blinked, Chicago. Dedication acting. The constant eye contact being a reminder that, yes, I can multitask and keep talking. I’ll make a great partner. Marry me. Meanwhile, to the outside world, it looks like you’re wrestling with a very small bass. If you’re a pro, you keep conversation moving. Still haven’t blinked. If you’re a pro, you keep conversation moving. “I’m listening. Keep talking. Keep talking. I can look and listen. Say FanDuel one more time, motherfucker. I’m listening.” You’re digging around in there. Meanwhile, as a woman, you’re having to come to terms with the seventh layer of hell that is the bottom of your bag. It’s just a graveyard of dismembered pens, there’s coins. Why is there always a Nature’s Valley granola bar crumbled… at the bottom? You stick your hand down, you come up with oats between your fingernails. You’re like, “Ow! Ow!” Digging around. A gym lock, a phone charger, a concealer without its lid. Why? Why can’t we make them with retractable lids that don’t break off? Because you stick your hand down there, unknowingly you come up with one creamy finger. You’re like, “No!” “No!” But it was expensive, so you’re like, “No!” So now you look amazing. Keep looking, keep looking. Bits of paper. A sock. Keep looking. Tampon out of its wrapper. Maybe I keep it. No, I’ll get sick. Digging around. If it’s out of the wrapper, don’t keep it. Sometimes it’s like, “I’ll just…” Don’t blow on it and… You’re gonna get dysentery, you’ll never finish the Oregon Trail. Seven or eight seconds go by, I cannot find my lip liner. Seven or eight seconds go by, which in girl years is, like, forever, I cannot find my lip liner. So, what’s a logical thing to do? Maybe use the other hand to add to the search, right? To aid in the excavation. Maybe get a cellular device to illuminate the situation. Not me! I dropped to my knees on a dance floor, dumped out the bag and start sifting through it like Helen Keller learning how to spell water. Fun fact. Girls, if you wanna let people around you know that you’re absolutely not on the same mental playing field as them, a great way to do it, I found, is to dump our personal property onto a shared communal space, because that immediately lets other bar-goers know, “I don’t give a fuck!” “Where is it?” This body language, this body language, this feral-raccoon-like body language… was enough to alert the door guy. You’re a door guy at a busy nightclub, you’ve got a lot to deal with. However, he found my witch over a cauldron behavior… threatening enough to leave his post, flashlight in hand, and walk up to me. He was a big guy. He was, like, six-eight, black guy, good-looking. I had to say he was good-looking. Because I said he was black. Seems to be the face of thinly-veiled political correctness in our country, if you say someone’s color, other than white, you must assign them an accolade, deserved or otherwise, to prove that you’re not racist, when in the first place, I wasn’t fucking racist, I was giving you an accurate depiction of the events that transpired. I didn’t see his face! Dude had a flashlight in my eye! I can tell you this much. Black, white or other, there’s no way he was hot. He’s six-eight. They get weird-looking after a certain height, okay? Structurally, it gets weird. Okay. I am not wrong. #IAmNotWrong Okay, so… It’s true. There’s no hot giants. So he Shreks up to me… And I feel his presence and I see the ball of light and I hear his voice and he goes, “Everything a’ight over here?” Fucking no, dude, everything is most definitely not a’ight. I’m on the floor. I don’t exist on this plane. Fun fact about being on the floor. As an adult, when you choose to take it to this place, you lose all credibility. Nobody wants to hear the prerogative of someone on the floor. If you have to crane your neck up to explain yourself, you are fucked, okay? You don’t believe me? You ever tried to get the life story of someone sitting on a curb? No. Because they were sitting on a fucking curb and you didn’t wanna talk to them. They were someone who’s drunk, on a lot of meth or like a really pissed off bridesmaid just waiting for the service to be over. But now I’m on the floor and I’m nervous because that’s an authority figure and in my head I’m like, “Oh, fuck, I’m gonna go a bar jail.” “What if they repossess my wedges?” But I was drunk and in my head I’m like, “It’s cool. Be smart. Explain what you’re doing. Whatever you do, Iliza, just sound intelligent.” Instead, what came out of my mouth was, “I gotta find my lip liner, man!” And… what I feel he understood, nay respected, nay… Neigh. Resonated with wasn’t that I had to find my lip liner. What I feel he understood was the sheer amount of white-girl crazy… coming out from behind my eye. Because he then gave me the international verbal sign for, “I respect you and fear you, I’m going to back off,” which is… “A’ight, then.” And he just walked away. I never found my lip liner. It was, like, in my other bag. I didn’t like that experience. I didn’t like being on the floor. And I didn’t like being on the floor for a very specific reason. As a woman, I didn’t need a reminder of how vulnerable women are on a day-to-day basis. Being on the floor, it’s a very vulnerable place. I didn’t need that reminder. And women in our society are vulnerable by virtue of the fact that we are physically not as strong as men. That’s the root of the issue, that’s the root of the oppression. And that’s the root of oppression of any side of war throughout history. One side was stronger, they get to make the rules. Do you think for a second that if women were physically stronger than men we would’ve waited for the right to vote? It’s 1910, some jacked-up housewife is just putting up weight in her garage. She’s got a shaker of horse testosterone and creatine. Her little husband comes in, he’s like, “You’re not voting.” She’d be like… “Out of the way, Jedediah.” “Mama’s going to the polls.”