Let's be perfectly honest here. Sometimes dating sucks. And you know what pushes it to the maximum level of suck? Dating one of these guys. These are the guys you've dated, perhaps seriously, perhaps casually -- let's hope for your sake casually -- who have, at points, pushed you to consider life of abstinence in a convent. They're those guys.
Here are the typical ten Houston dudes you've probably dated. Just take this as proof that it is indeed not you, it's them. And don't worry. We're not afraid to admit that we're writing this blog from experience. Lots and lots of experience.
Mr. Big Shot Oil Guy It's Houston, y'all. The city is crawling with oil folks, from the outskirts of the city to the heart of downtown. And the thing is, so many of them are single. And they have exciting foreign accents! Ex-pats seem like a great idea, with their fancy oil gigs and their love of the pints and all. Everything goes well at first, and then you know what happens? He leaves you in search of his one true love -- black gold. Gone are the days of pints and thick brogue; he's off to intimidate polar bears and sea creatures into giving up the goods, while you're left with nothing but a newly acquired beer gut and some fish and chips as memories.
The Confused Houston Transplant He's been transferred here from Minneapolis or some other obscure place to take over some obscure job at Dell in the Woodlands, and he just cannot -- can not -- figure out his footing. He doesn't know I-45 South from the Gulf Freeway, and the idea of which part of 610 is the North Loop is just way too confusing for words. He'd come pick you up for that sweet little dinner at the chain restaurant he suggested, but he can't seem to figure out the freeway exit, or the map on his iPhone. He just drives in circles on 610 ad infinitum, day after day.
The Die Hard Aggie Alum Walking up to his door, you spot the first signs of a die hard Aggie fan -- the dreaded Gig 'Em welcome mat. Maybe it's a fluke, you think. Keep an open mind, you say. They're not all nuts, right? And then the door opens, and you're overwhelmed by the door chime -- the freakin' Aggie fight song -- and the color maroon temporarily blinds you while somehow managing to throw up all over your nice shoes. Maroon carpet, maroon curtains. There's Aggie paraphernalia as far as the eye can see, which isn't far, since everything maroon melds together. His maroon kicks take it over the top, and you politely scream, "I'm a Longhorns fan!" while running toward anyone who will save you from the madness.
The Die Hard Longhorn Alum See The Die Hard Aggie Fan, only replace maroon with burnt orange and a silhouette of some sort of cattle. They're interchangeable, really.
The 30k Millionaire This guy. I mean, we all know this guy. He pulls up to your house in a BMW, and he makes sure to tell you it's a BMW as you step in. He doesn't let you put your feet on his floor mats, though, because after all, it's a BMW. You're left to somehow lift your feet inches off that imported plastic mat, your legs cramping from the muscle tension it takes to do so while he drives fast as hell down I-10 because, well, Beemer and all. You pull up to the overpriced restaurant, and he barks at the valet about not touching the buttons.
He then proceeds to spend the entire dinner forcing you to gag from disgust as he talks about how much money he has, and how much his car cost, and how much ass he pulls because of his money, money, money. And yet, on the way home, he invites you back to his mother's house, where he lives, because he can't afford his lifestyle with well, his Beemer and all.
The Inner Looper The Inner Looper. This isn't the guy who lives in the inner loop, it's the guy who can't live without the inner loop. He's a trembling little girl when it comes to driving outside of the confines of his comfort zone, convinced that areas of the city that aren't snuggled within the 610 borders are full of some Tobacco Road/Deliverance type of folks, complete with sawed off shotguns and terrible taste in shoes and music. And when you suggest that you should meet for the steak frittes and a martini at Flora & Muse, he spends the next hour rocking in a corner in some little hipster bar in protest. He will never leave the loop for you. NEVER.
The Urban Cowboy No one in this city needs a gun rack; there aren't wild elk and buffalo roaming off Yorktown, nor are there deer leases off Richmond or Montrose. And yet for some reason, the Urban Cowboy has three gun racks in his living room alone. There are dead, stuffed creatures as far as the eye can see, and even his counters are made of leather. He's completely manscaped his house with every accessory a good urban cowboy should have -- guns, guns, and more guns. Well, at least in the main areas. You'll never make it to the bedroom to find out the beauty of that thing, or how many gun racks he's got nailed to the wall in there cause, well, you're kinda worried he's got a thing for shooting shit, and you'd rather not be next.
The Bottle Service Broseph Oh, this guy. Good old Broseph. He's a ton of fun at first, ordering shots, shots, shots, shots, shots, shots, e'rybooooody and dancing around like there's no tomorrow in his cut-off tee and embroidered jeans. He loves pop music, he's so okay with tanning, and he's got so many aerosol hair products, you worry about spontaneous combustion.
Things start to go downhill when the tab comes every Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday night -- you take Monday and Tuesday off as grooming days -- and he's nowhere to be found. He's ordered a bottle of Dom and a bottle of Grey Goose on your tab, though. He emerges when the credit card slips are all signed, content with his free buzz, and newly-oiled up with glitter lotion from his stint spent hiding in the bathroom.
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The David Downer, aka Captain Depresso Oh, man. This guy. He's the male counterpart to Debbie Downer, hell-bent on convincing everyone that everything in this city sucks, and he can't wait to get out and into a place with some real culture. Our music scene is non-existent. He knows this based on the fact that no one will book his crappy nu-metal band, or even give him a job because he won't shower or cut his hair. He can't find a place to live, so he crashes on his buddy's couch and smokes weed all day because he's so progressive that this city just doesn't "get" him. It's all garbage, man. This city is run by The Man, man.
He'll never leave this city, though. He'll never leave. He's too content to drunk dial you after a 6-pack of PBR and beg to sleep on your couch for a while, while he gets himself together to hitchhike to Austin. You'll eventually get bored with his outsider shtick and change your number. It's the only way he'll stop calling.
Rick Perry's Nephew Okay, so he's not technically Slick Rick's nephew, but he might as well be. He's a staunch conservative, convinced that he knows about women's reproductive rights -- they should have none -- and he's still sporting that Bush/Cheney bumper sticker with pride. Best. President. Ever.
He's in line to become the next generation of decision-makers; his daddy and his daddy's daddy all ran for political offices, and he will too. You won't be around to see it, though. His penchant for NSA hookups and starched shirts will eventually drive a wedge between you. There are only so many starched, popped collar shirts and NRA rallies one can take before it's sensory overload.