Namaste away from me.

From Our Pal's site re: the Gawker coverage:

It's a motherfucker. It's gonna fuck your shit up big time.

Ready? Really ready? Here it is.

I am you.

OH SHIT!!!! THAT'S RIGHT!! NO WAY!!!!

I... am... you.

In every way. All the time. Without fail.

Anything you think, feel, say about me... is how you think, feel and speak about yourself. I know it's a little confusing so let me break it down and make it reeeeeeeeeeeeally simple.

If you were to say, something like, oh I don't know, "Eric Schaeffer is an asshole." What you're really saying is, "I'm an asshole."

If you were to saying something like, "Eric Schaeffer is talentless." What you're really saying is "I'm talentless." Getting the hang of it now? No? Still confused? Maybe if I give you an example in the positive, your mind will be able to grasp it. If you were to say something like, "Eric Schaeffer is awesome!" What you're really saying is, "I'm awesome!" If you were to say, "Eric Schaeffer is really talented. I love him." You would really be saying "I'm really talented. I love myself."

Snookypants? I'm pretty sure you're all conviced that you've made a Deep, Important, Philosophical Statement of which only the Exceptionally Enlightened and Stoned Liberal Arts Majors will fully grasp the awesome intensity, but you just sound like a ninny. Our experiences, motivations, assessments, actions and reactions are wholly individual, and huzzah for that! Yes, we as humans act in community, and as such we are all affected by each others' choices, but dude - seriously, just OWN your behavior, take responsibility, and don't let it spray all over the rest of us. What you've posted is essentially the long-winded version of "I'm rubber, and you're glue."

A brilliant paraphrasing by a dear friend of mine:

I will not get that last half-hour of my life back. I do not want
that to happen to you. So, to sum up his lengthy post...

Oh, there was a spike in traffic to my website. Hosting company
says it's Gawker. What is this Gawker thing? They must be great,
helping "fans" find my site. Gee. But maybe it's not all good.
Friends are alluding to that fact. What's a gent to do? I went to
yoga and got the answer. We all want to be happy and free. I want
to be happy and free and I want to help all people attain this. So
this is how I will respond: we are all one. Anything you think
about me reflects your own state of mind. So if you think I'm
great, that means you're great. If you think I'm an asshole,
you're the asshole. Oh, so Gawker sucks. The writers suck. They
couldn't get jobs anywhere else. It's like 7th grade. They're
anti-gay. All the girls who wrote in about me lied. Yes - all of
the lied and they all know it. And they're all pathetic, and the
fact that We Are All One is a hard pill to swallow so I will
compare this to sucking cock. Something about cesspools and
anguish, too. So read this quote by Mother Theresa and if you see
me on the stree or in yoga, please come say hi. Namaste.

Grotesqueries.

From the comments:

darkstar said...
Is it possible this whole thing is some kind of attempt at creating a literary persona--a character for a movie or book? How can anyone be 45 and this immature about relationships, much less un-humiliated to tell that they thought and acted like this? Is it possible this is someone's idea (Eric's) of a literary venture? Please? I'm Southern and I cringe when I think about that scene in "Tobacco Road" where the woman with the cleft palate or whatever is edging closer and closer to some man who has possession of some turnips, in order to offer sexual favors in exchange for some turnips...and yet, this is a popular literary device, the "grotesque." There have been some "grotesques" on the web in recent years that have turned out to be fake, such as 10K4awife, Psychoexgirlfriend, Peter Pan guy, Mahir, and Mary Romantic. These are (in my opinion) made up in order to get lots of clicks. Now I know Eric Schaeffer is a real person who probably does seem to act like these stories, but is he bumping it up a notch in order to riff on it as a literary character in some way? In other words, can any human of any age, be this grotesque and this unaware? I mean, I have had some pretty stupid reactions and feelings in the romance dept. but I told NO one, not even my friends! I was embarrassed that I felt that way, plus I was 19!

Personally, I'm inclined to believe that he's repellently, tragically real, but that's mostly borne of having had a tenure or two of online dating before meeting my husband (uh, online, actually), and having encountered my share of these narcissistic Peters-Pan. Your thoughts?

I Got My Feelings Hurt Because She Didn't Want To Cuddle

Yes, there are T-shirts, bibs, and more.

http://www.cafepress.com/stillsingle

Reeking havoc.

From ES's latest prose-wank about his forni-cation to America.

"They could smell the north on me and hated me for it."


No, honey. It was the CK-One. And the desperation. And the rotting hollow where a soul was supposed to be.


And it's cute that he thinks his Northernness was the primary reason to hate him. That's 'round about reason 5,467, so far as I'm tallying.

Subjectively speaking.

I'm trying to parse exactly what about Our Pal is driving so many of us to such feverish levels of observation. I suppose it's rare that the public is granted such unfettered access to the inner machinations of a lifeform just *barely* masquerading as a member of our species. His un-self-awareness is raw and unspoiled - a protozoic Id that's discovered locomotion, and drags and humps itself along from one warm and fertile cove to the next.


Sniff...paw. Sniff...grope. Sniff...paw...love meeeeeeeee!!! You no love meeeeee? Whyyy??? Baaad yoooouuuu! You wrong. Hate yooouuuuuuu!!!


Woe (and, natch, highly defective) is the woman who does not Pavlovionically slaver at his offers of seed and the associated succor. How dare she lead him on, so clearly indicating her interest in him by occupying the same public space as him, and not either actively vomiting upon him or being mid-coitus with another man? How dare she possess a vagina, knowing full well he has a penis, and not allow these accoutrement to interact? Why, she is gollydarned lucky that he's gentleman enough not to lumber in and physically claim what is so rightfully his!


What a magical speciman Our Pal is! We are truly fortunate to have this vantage point from which to observe, and I wriggle in anticipation of what he will gift us with next.

Kidding around.

From his MySpace blog entitled, "can you f$cked up fathers please stop molesting your daughters so I can get married!"

"She knew she was in dealbraker territory."
"Who are you asking these kind of questions inside the first hour of our first date."
"I'm old. We're all gonna be dead very soon. There's no time left. Do you wanna have babies? DO you drink a lot? DO you believe in God? If we like each other I'm gonna want to kiss you and I'm a germaphobe and need to know if I can, okay? Answer the questions."

"The last three girls I dated, two Nervettes and one civilian, all have been sexually abused by close members of their family and subsequently want to pull me close so they can anihilate me. I'm getting kinda tired of it. My heart can only take so much, so could you f$cked up fathers please stop sexually abusing your daughters so I might have a chance at getting married?"

Yes, by all means, criminally twisted psychovillains of the world, paws off the kiddiewinks. It makes life inconvenient for Our Hero.

Taking the cake.

From the comments:

January 26, 2007 11:03 AM
unfun said...
Seriously people, enter the archives of the douche's blog at your own risk (of severe indigestion).

"This leads to the LIGHT BULB ABOVE THE HEAD IDEA. A sign to everyone else in the world that reads "Turn and run away!" but I see as the margin of my brilliance. The idea is... "If I throw the cake in the trash I won't eat it because it's garbage now." Mensa, baby! I know if I'm going to eat the cake out of the trash before my feet hit the floor. And if I've spoiled it with detergent, I eat around the detergent. If believing it isn't safe in my internal apartment trash, I throw it in the communal trash in the hallway, I still eat it. Once, the service elevator door opened and the porter, looking to steal away my trash bounty, caught me in full bite, chocolate smeared on my face when I didn't want to waste the time to go back inside and eat it. He just looked at me with a steely stare, "You done?" Pointing to the stinking industrial can of the seventeenth floor's waste, more affectionately known as my evening dessert. I made sure I got all my cake out. "Take it. And then just the check please." I didn't say that last part."

I mean honestly, has their ever, in the history of mankind, lived a person as repulsive? HE WRITES ABOUT EATING CAKE OUT OF COMMUNAL APARTMENT GARBAGE CANS! And then WONDERS WHY HE IS STILL SINGLE! Listen Eric, some things are better left unsaid. Like, pretty much anything that crosses your mind. Just, try not talking. Or writing. At all. Ever again.

January 26, 2007 1:31 PM

Choose your ES adventure...

From the comments:

Doug said...
Okay, here's how the latest installment of "It came to Charleston ends:

"After teasing her for a while over hers clothes with my hands and lips and breath, I jammed my hand down the back of her jeans and grabbed a handful of her. She had said in her profile that any man that didn't enjoy that should pass her by. I wanted her to know I had been listening to what she thought was important too. She groaned. I went for her button in the front and she grabbed my hand and said...

To be continued..."

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I now invite you to answer the burning (more than likely) question: What did she say?

Mediahohoho

January 26, 2007 8:59 AM


Doug said...
"...oh god."

"What's your problem?" I asked because I can be sensitive like that.

She threw up a little bit in her mouth.

"I promised myself I would never do this again."

I searched her eyes, which were darting around the room, looking for the nearest exit.

"I have these episodes where sort of black out and when I come to, I'm usually with some totally inappropriate, um, person."

It was then that she noticed my hand down the back of her jeans, my palmful of ass.

"Hey, whatthe..." she stammered, wrenching away from me and snapping my spindly, anorectic wrist like a twig.

It was then that she projectile vomited, all over me, my tiny hotel room, my yoga mat and my precious bottle of CKOne.

Unfortunately, later that night I had to tell her that it wouldn't be a love connection for us. I can't stand chicks who throw up.

January 26, 2007 9:06 AM

Post 'em.

Got an ES encounter to share?

iknowwhyyourestillsingle at G mail dot com

I believe we all know why we're here.

http://www.icantbelieveimstillsingle.com/

Share your ES war stories.