Girly Quote Debunked: Happiest Runner-Up on Earth

I came across this little gem on Tumblr the other day.

This quote makes me want to vomit rainbows. There are several things inaccurate about not only believing that your male mate has chosen only you out of the estimated 3.3 billion women on the planet, but that it is because of who you are.

As aforementioned, there are somewhere around 3.3 billion women roaming (well, “roaming” applies only if they’ve not been put into captive by their male counterparts) this earth. Why would your “man” work on a serious, long-term relationship with someone outside his own area code? We’ll try area code 23219, or downtown Richmond. You and “ya boo” are going steady within the Richmond city limits. Richmond should have by now, according to my Microsoft Calculator, about 206,245 people. We’ll say half of them are women. Automatically, since we’re looking at only the other women your “sweetcakes” could potentially be with in the area, that leaves us a whopping 206,244 women left. Factoring out his mother, assumed sister, his aunts, grandmothers, cousins, second cousins, et al., because we’re assuming he’s not maddeningly attracted to women he’s related to (or that they would reciprocate these unnatural feelings), we’re left with 206,208. Considering the high volume of gay and lesbian residents in Richmond (have you ever been to the Carytown district?), we’ll factor out lesbians, leaving us with 175,993 women for your “snoogie-bear” to choose to be with.

Graciously assuming that women who are married and have children will want nothing too serious with your “dogishly faithful manservant,” 128,315 remain without children. We’ll factor out 75% of married women without children, as well, assuming that an unfortunate 25% are indecent enough to carry out a meaningful emotional/sexual relationship with someone other than their legal husband. This has us at 79,169. But it doesn’t end here. The high volume of crime in Richmond has yet to be added into the mix. Although Richmond is improving altogether as a city, there is still a 38.8% murder rate. We’ll axe off some women from last year, putting the total at 68,418. Alarmingly, the rape statistic is exactly the same (38.8%), and we’re going to go ahead and assume that nearly all of said rapes were inflicted on women, and that about half of them are not ready for a committed relationship due to trauma or lack of trust in men (which, who can blame them? I hardly trust myself), so now there are roughly 50,000 women remaining.

Assuming that this quote was marked onto paper by a white female between the age of 18-24 (although we might as fucking well start at 13 considering how emotionally and logically immature it is), and that the man who would be with this brilliant young flower is interested only in the 18-35 age group. And we’ll go ahead and say he’s restricted himself to his own race, maybe a few Asians. The grand total now is somewhere in the 12,800 region. Don’t get me wrong, Miss, you’re still a hotshot. That’s a large volume of women to choose between.

But wait. There’s always the Female Prison in Washington, DC, housing tons of women from the Richmond area, we’ll just say it’s about 7,000, and unless your “dashing lubber” is into butch girls who shank other butch girls, he’s only got 5,800 slices of pie left to pick over you.

Culturally speaking, not everyone is going to click. The Edgar Allen Poe museum is located in Richmond, and we can heartfully assume that plenty of college-graduated girls who have based their identity on the dark and arcane moved out there to soak that shit in. We’ll take away 1,858-ish girls who are either too gothy or are big fans of The Satanic Verses. On the opposite end of the spectrum, there are several historic churches in Richmond, and considering the mindset of most men (read: ignorant men) these days, your “goober-dumpling” is going to consider celibacy or devout religiousness a dealbreaker. We’ll be generous, considering the large volume of liberal thinking in a culturally vibrant totally 2010 Richmond, and break off only 3,300 women for being already married to God. 642, assuming they’re all attractive. 1/3 of the country is obese, and your dear man is probably as shallow as a kiddie pool, so we’ll trim it on down to 428, leaving the butterfaces and girls with goofy eyebrows or bad taste in clothes, only because I’m starting to pity you at this point.

Who says that 428 challenging women isn’t impressive? Beauty pageants have less women than that in them, and winning a beauty pageant is a huge deal, right? But who says that all 428 of these women would even have your “cock bunny?” Sure, we’ve considered his interest in the opposite gender, but what about reciprocation? Scenario: your “squishy pumpkin” heads out to ‘da club’ one evening for a rowdy and sexually-charged nightcap of dancing (grinding) and socializing (spilling beer on cute women). He hits on 30 women in his drunken state, making a complete ass of himself. Leaving ‘da club’ later on, his negligent friends allow him to leave on his own, in turn causing two fender benders. This ought knock out another seven women, who try unsuccessfully to get him to stop driving and surrender his insurance information, instead becoming targets for vomit and slurred flirts. That’s thirty-seven (in a row?) women factored out, and that’s all in one night. Assuming that men never learn, this evening is repeated three times. Now he’s made an ass of himself in front of one-hundred-and-eleven women, who, if they ever see him again, will toss the contents of their martini glasses into his face and pout off to the women’s washroom.

317 and running, but hey, not all girls want to jump his bones. He’s not much of an athlete, I’m assuming, since he’s white and hockey and golf aren’t traditionally attractive sports, there’s 150 right there who’ve lost interest. Is he in a band? No, and buying a cheap Squier in the ninth grade so you can learn to play “Dani California” to get your classmates to blow you doesn’t make you a musician. There’s eighty more women who could give less of a shit. We can down another fifty who would get sick of his misogyny, bad breath, or poor taste after spending more than an hour in his company, and knock off thirty more of the women he works with who know him well enough to know how completely full of shit he is, or just obey the classic company policy of “no inter-office relationships.”

You are now one of eight women whom your “soul mate” has determined to be suitable for him at the time. Don’t get comfortable, because he’ll eventually find the other seven and worm his way out of your cold, determined grasp for something meaningful. Today’s lesson: if you’re going to label something the “happiest feeling ever,” try and pick something sensible.

-Josh