My daughters will never date men named Glen. I trust Glens even less than I trust Mikes or Matts and you couldn't PAY me to entrust them with anything of even the slightest importance. Matts are date-rapers and test-cheaters. Mikes skim off the register and steal your girlfriend. Glens, however, are on a whole other level of fuckedupedness.
Glens have wispy, prematurely thinning hair, permanent skin and fingernail discoloration from a lifetime of chain-smoking, and they look at least 10 years older than they actually are. They are the fat, pasty-white guys at your 15 year high school reunion who are camped out at the end of the open bar swilling gin and inhaling the Chex Fiesta Mix like the bottom of the bowl holds the secret to eternal youth.
The product of an inordinate amount of time spent indoors, in the dark, prone in front of the television staring at late-night Ronco infomercials, Glens are those guys with zero muscle definition who look like heaps of Jell-O poured into molds purchased from the Failure-At-Life Store.
Glens befriend the bartender and the waitstaff--making painfully-forced small talk as they get drunker and drunker in an attempt to block out the comments their classmates are making about them under their breath:
"Who's Glen?"
"Jesus, what happened to Glen?"
"Hey, I didn't know we went to school with Louie Anderson"
"God must really hate Glen"
"Hey, that fatass is eating all the Chex Mix!"
The indignity is almost too much to bear, even for Glens. But, when you consider that the only reason Glens attend their reunion in the first place is the free food and free booze, it should be no surprise that Glens are the first to arrive and the last to leave.
Glens live at home in the basement surrounded by half gallon milk jugs and Tupperware containers of varying shapes and sizes filled with their bodily fluids. Why is this? you might ask. Well Glens rarely take care of business where business is normally taken care of. They are always too something--too tired, too sweaty, too lazy, too comfortable, too pre-occupied. It is, after all, much easier to roll to one side and rub one out into yesterdays lunch Tupperware than it is to go to the bathroom or the bedroom and risk missing Ron Popeil "set and forget" another fucking Lamb shank in his counter-top rotisserie oven.
Glens also like the weird porn. I'm not talking bondage or foot fetish either. I'm talking anal bukkake gangbang and fisting pregnant Asian women who are missing appendages.
"Hop Sing she rike you put you hand in da poo poo hole rong time. Shove big hand rike jackhammah make Hop Sing scleam velly roud and want to rick you finger."
Glens love to visit Thailand. They go in small groups with people they meet on the internet--armed with $5000, a small duffel bag, and a stack of mail-order bride catalogues [dog-eared, highlighted, and underlined] that have a number of pages mysteriously stuck together:
"Hmmm, BT4565. "Penny." 5'2" 95lbs. Loves to cook and clean. She's 18 (wink, wink) and dreams of moving to Hollywood and meeting Dustin Hoffman."
Glens are mouth-breathers and I want them nowhere near my end of the gene pool. They are the Dutch Elm disease of the family tree. Let a Glen park his lemon Jell-O ass on one of your branches and you might as well soak that limb in napalm and strike the match--at least it's quicker.
Posted by nils at 9:11 PM