So moving to the Philippines and being attractive to the ladies in the Philippines is no problem at all. After all the stereotype Australian drinks beer all day and every day, dresses like a tramp and is loud and annoying. Of course, none of this is true. But, what do the ladies of the Philippines think of the average Aussie guy. Do they even tell the difference between Australia and America?
Ever asked yourself what is it about Australian men that’s just SO goddamn hot? Yup, we have too. But it’s not only their friendly demeanor and sexy accents that we’re obsessed with, they have so much more to offer. Like how they love a crazy ass adventure and are always up for a good time. Or how they can kill spiders for us, in demand. Ladies, listen up. Here’s why Australian guys are THE DREAM.
But according to this poor lady from a blogsite she does NOT agree!!
This is not going to be pleasent
Aussies have a lot going for them. Usually very handsome, always with that sexy accent, and inevitable appreciation for sunblock. The problem is they also typically suck. Many years of knowing and dating them has solidified this stereotype. They’re drunks. All of them. Every single one I have met drinks to get drunk. They treat women like shit. I’m assuming this is because Aussie women are drunks too, lacking a certain standard of care that sober women demand. Holding hair from the toilet seat doesn’t demonstrate the best of your nurturing side, as appreciative as we may be at the time. Taco Bell never really did look good in my ponytail.
So when I met this Aussie guy last week, it was with great hesitation that I found interest. However, he was different. In a sea of overtly passive hipsters, this one locked eyes with me, called me over to his table, and asked me to join him and his friend. He was blond, absolutely charming to look at, with blue cat eyes and a smile to orgasm for. It turns out he was in a meeting with the other guy, but couldn’t resist talking to me. Holy balls, he’s got em! He coyly slipped me his business card, which was either a signal to call him, or a suggestion that I could use help with online branding and marketing. A text would settle the question.
That night I texted him my number, and he replied by asking me out on a proper date to dinner. Now I dont know what else is going on in other parts of the world, but an invitation to dinner around here is as exciting as seeing the Chupacabra. Part legend, part ancient world myth, its been a damn long time since a man invited me to a meal.
So I plan the whole next day around my date. What time I need to shower, a quick shopping trip for a new outfit, and what excuse I can use to keep him out of my apartment. It has been decided awhile ago that I am no longer capable of casual sex. If you have cried after sex more than once in a year, then clearly your hormones are indicating you are more suited for self love and masturbation. Apparently I am quite suited.
So we decide on 8:30 pm and I pick a nice trendy place close to home. Later I receive a text that it will be at 9:15 due to a work engagement. No problem buddy, I am still going to wear heels for you.
9pm: I start the 15 minute walk from my house to the restaurant. Oh boy, the anticipation has begun. I am eating a real dinner tonight!! With whats his name..
9:08: Receive a text from him. “Just leaving the city now, hopping on train, see you at 930.”
You’re late. Bad start, but forgivable.
9:30: After standing in front of the restaurant looking longingly out into the street, I decide to go in alone. I’m starving, and in 5 inch heels. I need to sit down and eat before I get mistaken for Brooklyns’ next anorexic hooker.
9:35: My waitress is hot, and nice enough to bring me bread and water. Prison rations.
9:45: I’ve spent 10 minutes being annoyed, and 5 being absolutely pissed. No text, no call, just my empty plate of bread, and a waitress who is giving me the “I’m sorry” eyes. I send him a text, secretly hoping he’s not standing me up, just dead somewhere.
“I will give you 5 more minutes, then Im leaving. I think thats fair.”
9:50: I tip the waitress, and steam roll out of there. I wonder if I should’ve just hit on her instead. At least she showed up for work that day. I storm home, trying desperately not to look at my phone. 10 blocks and 3 looks at it. My ratio is good, my pride in tact.
10:00: I get home and rant to my roomate at the top of my lungs. I proclaim my hate. I down a glass of wine.
10:08: Text from him. “Haha. Just got here. What a shit guy I am. Let me make it up to you with a nice dinner or sexual favors.”
Haha? Excuse me, is that where you meant to put “I’m terribly sorry” but were auto corrected to “haha?” You werent even decent enough to call me and apologize, make up an excuse, feign a near death experience? Haha? Sexual favors for a girl you just stood up? My, you are bold. Bold and stupid. Are Australian girls this easy? I delete his text and number. I rip up his business card, rant some more, drink some more. I feel better.
Three days go by, and no contact, which is expected and accepted. Then I get this bullshit text.
“Ok so sorry for the poor form the other night- take 2, want to come to the brooklyn flea market tomorrow and talk nonsense?”
I tell him Im working. He asks me why Im working on “Sunday Funday.”
Oh hell no. Sunday Funday? The worst phrase in the history of American Culture, reminiscent of Orange County tweens, fraternitys nation wide, and the Jersey Shore Cast?
There is no response to properly suggest my disgust for him, and so I give none. Instead I pontificate on finding true love, meeting a real man, and the thought of being a single senior citizen who has mastered “self love.”