by David Spade
Instagram is the same shit.
GIRL: Who’s this chick Stacey?
ME: Stacey who?
GIRL: Some whore. You liked her picture on Instagram. Are you fucking her?
ME: What? No. I don’t even know her.
GIRL: So you stalk some girl and like her pictures but don’t know her? What a creep.
ME: No. I mean I kind of know her, but how did you even know?
GIRL: My friend told me! (Also known as staying in for six hours scanning Instagram like Tom Cruise in Minority Report. Charts and graphs all over.)
ME: (Bummed-out expression on face.)
Once, an ex met me in Newport for a night. I told her no pictures, no posting, no bullshit. (That should be a sign in every establishment, replacing “No shirt, No shoes, No Service.”) I didn’t want to get caught by the chick I was currently dating. (Great guy.) Then I saw that she posted a pic of herself lying out by the pool. The shot was a close-up, so you couldn’t tell where she was. Well, that was enough to set off the bloodhounds. My new girl followed the ex, or at least ghosted her (hip social media lingo). So if I was at a place that has sun, and the ex was also there, that was all the new girl needed. She went into Murder, She Wrote detective mode and got her answers.
GIRL: So how is golf in Newport with your buddies?
ME: (Getting nervous because this is a weird question.) Um, good.
GIRL: So you’re having a good time, just you and your guy friends?
ME: (More nervous, WTF is going on?) Ummm yeah, yeah, all good in the hood.
GIRL: So it’s just you and no chicks. Just guys weekend, like you said right? And don’t lie. I’m giving you a chance not to lie.
This is the worst thing chicks do. I never know if I should bite on this hook because I have to quickly guess the odds of how much the chick already knows. I rarely come clean in this situation, mostly because I’d always rather put off a fight than have it right then.
ME: Umm . . . sticking to my story, babe. Just dudes, yawn . . . actually pretty boring.
GIRL: You’re such a fucking liar. (Hangs up.)
I was confused. I started accusing my friends of ratting me out because this girl always texted them just to say “hi” and she’d use her evil genius to trick them into giving up vital and bustable info.
Example: GIRL: Hey Steve, I know David still hangs out with that girl Amy. It’s cool, we talked about it. I just want to know is she nice or a bitch?
STEVE: Um, she’s pretty cool I guess.
GIRL: Oh that’s good. (She never knew I was still talking to Amy, but now she does!)
It’s a chick trick (more on those later) and she loved to start this kind of civil war. And my buddies are so fucking stupid they fall for it every time. I’m always overly concerned with how I’m found out. The chick would always tell me it didn’t matter how she knew, but that I needed to address the charge levied against me. I would plead that if the accusation was based on emails obtained from my laptop, that was inadmissible evidence. Girls don’t play by the same rules as the court system. Unfortch.
Anyway, this brings me to the only Twitter story worth a shit that I can share. Through the magic of the social media, I got to meet one of the most beautiful girls in the world. Here’s what happened. One day I was walking around in Beverly Hills with my crooked stupid trucker hat on trying to look cool as per usual, and I stumbled upon a Victoria’s Secret store. In the window was a huge photo of Candice Swanepoel, a sickeningly hot import from South Africa who puts 99 percent of girls to shame. In the photo she was modeling the latest underpants or whatever, and I thought, Ooh-la-la, let’s take a picture of this to share with all my horny guy followers. Great idea right, but what’s the joke? I couldn’t just post a pic for guys to beat off to, and at least half of my followers are female, so if I make it sort of clever at least they’ll laugh (maybe).
So I held up a penny in front of Candice’s poster and took a picture of it. My brilliant caption was “Oh look at this sexy, hot penny.” The penny was tiny in the foreground and then behind was this whole picture of her. Now it looked kind of amusing, but it wasn’t some home run of a joke. But that was fine. It was a broken-bat single. They can’t all be gems. I figured it was funny enough to throw out there to the Twitter gods. I fed them one more day, my work as a comic today was done. Well, luckily this one happened to get a lot of play. I got some favorites and a lot of retweets. (So gross that I noticed.) Now, when this happens there’s a chance you’ll get burned by some Twitter rats. Twitter rats are the losers who rat you out to other people when you do jokes about them. Like they’ll say, “Hey @KimKardashian did you hear what @DavidSpade said about you?” They want to get you going in a Twitter war, which I would rather avoid. (Isn’t it sad that we live in a country where Kylie Jenner can’t drink or vote but she can be in a Twitter war?) I never put the “@” with the celeb name when I do one of those kinds of jokes, because I just want to get a burn in and be on my merry way. Plus, the Twitter rats will likely take care of it for me.
Well, Candice found out. Now, in all fairness I’ve laid down some harsh jokes on Twitter, but calling a girl beautiful isn’t the worst one. And Candice wrote on her Twitter that she thought the joke was funny. Well la de frickin’ da! This babe knows I’m on the planet! This was great news! I was shocked by this. I didn’t plan to do anything about it. But my idiot friend said, “Dude. Send her a DM. Just say hello.” I thought this was a bit nuts. I mean, first I needed to make sure that the page was actually legit. It panned out so I decided to embarrass myself and send a direct tweet. For those of you who don’t know what that is (my grandparents), it’s like an email. If you both follow each other then the lines are open once a direct tweet happens, and you can send messages no one else can see. So I rolled the dice. I said something like, “Hey glad you were cool with that joke. Keep up the good work,” or something similarly weak and gameless. I left it at that and went about my day. Well lo and behold the next day there was a notification that I had a direct message from her. My friend was shitting. I played it cool and waited about eight seconds before I clicked on it. She wrote, “Hey there. I laughed. It was funny.” And in my head I’m like, Boiiiing oooinnng ooinggg (that’s a boner noise) and in my pants I was like Boiiiing oooinnng ooinggg and then, like a dumb fuck, I wrote back. Immediately. I didn’t wait a day like you’re supposed to, I didn’t even wait ten minutes, and I immediately started pecking away. Again, gameless. To make matters worse, I said something like, “That’s great maybe I’ll run into you someday.” So lame, especially when you consider that her message really didn’t require an answer at all. It was a statement, not a question. But that didn’t stop me. No sirree.
But later that night, there it was: another message from Candy. “Hey are you going to go to the Victoria’s Secret party in L.A. next week? If so, come say hello.” And I go, trying to be cool, “Oh, I might swing by.” Meanwhile it’s another round of booooiiiinggggg.
I told (bragged to) my friends, who were all stoked and wanted to tag along. Luckily, my buddy Cade works with Victoria’s Secret and had sent me an invite so I had a legit reason to go. The day of the event, she messaged me again. “So, are you definitely coming tonight?” And I was like, “RELAX babe, don’t be so thirsty. Fucking Needy Gonzalez. Take it easy. I might pop in.” I didn’t really write that, but we were all laughing at how redick we were all being about this party. My buddies and I cruised in, got a juicy booth, some booze. I see Candy Cane. Now I was nervous. “There she is,” my idiot friend said. “Are you going to go talk to her? You going to talk about Twitter?” And I go, “No, that’s stupid, dude. We’ll talk about other stuff.” So I slugged down a few shots of Belvedere and primped my fluffy feathered nineties hair and sauntered over. I was getting closer and she was getting prettier. Cade made the introductions. “Candice, this is David Spade.” I say, “Hey, how are you doing?” You know, I was playing it all cool. “Hi” she said. And that was it. “Hey,” I said. And then
silence. Again. “Having fun at the party?” “Yeah.” Finally I couldn’t take it. “Hey, on Twitter, thanks for liking that joke about you. I know it’s stupid but that was nice, you were a good sport.” And then, as if in slow motion, she looked at me funny and said, “Oh no, I’m not on Twitter.”
Wuhhhhhhhhhhh????
I looked at her like a dog watching a magic trick. It wasn’t quite sinking in. I couldn’t hear anything. I stood there like an idiot just staring in disbelief. Finally she jumped in with “Oh, was there like some fake account that says it’s me or something?” I was dying of embarrassment. I didn’t see this coming at all. To add insult to injury, she said, “Oh, what was the joke? I’m sure it was funny.” It was like when a bomb goes off in the movies and there is that high-pitched noise over total silence. I grabbed my ears and staggered away in slow motion.
I walked back over to my buddies, who were all desperate to hear what happened. I couldn’t even talk. And then Miranda Kerr, another lovely, sweet Victoria’s Secret model, came over to ask how I’m doing. I managed to mumble something like “Uh, ah . . .” and she asked why I was crying. (Kidding.) So, I just told Miranda the whole story. She couldn’t have been nicer about it. She even felt bad for me. And while I was coming out of this Candice jet wash I slowly realized that the other hottest woman on the planet was actually supercool and supersweet and was A REAL PERSON, not a fake Twitter account. Eventually, we all had a laugh at what a fucking dipshit I am.
I still can’t believe I got catfished, though. It can happen to anyone, guys. I was so fucking stoked to meet Candice and she had no idea who I was. She probably thought she was meeting a contest winner or something. Serves me right for trying to beat the internet.
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHICK TRICKS
This chapter is a lot shorter than you might be expecting, mostly because I’m not married and my love life is sort of a disaster, so any relationship advice I give should really go in one ear and out the other. I have a reputation for dating tons of girls. This probably started back in the Just Shoot Me! days. Finch, my character, was hitting on models in every scene. Most of my rep comes from the characters I play on television and movies, and generally my characters chase young women. I’m not even sure I can play anything else, to be honest. I’ve never been asked. Now Spade the real guy isn’t exactly Finch or Higgins or any other number of skirt chasers I’ve played. Obviously these characters are exaggerations—I try not to be so desperate and obvious when talking to girls in real life like, but that doesn’t mean I am good at it. And even though I’m not good at it, that doesn’t mean I don’t try.
I’m an average-looking dude. It is different for me than for someone like say, George Clooney, who is far from average. This guy had been single all his life, up until very recently. People have tons to say about my being single, saying things like “The guy’s fifty. I mean come on, it’s just not cute anymore. When is he going to get his shit together? I always see him with a different girl, it’s so embarrassing. Act your age and get married already . . .” But with someone like Jeter or DiCaprio, the hens on The View and those other shows say things like, “Why should he get married? He’s single and loving it! Let those guys have their fun. They’re rich bachelors; having the time of their lives . . .”
I always wondered why Clooney caught a break on that and I didn’t. I think it’s the good-looking factor. At least that’s what I’m blaming it on. I heard a quote once that has been attributed to Clooney but I’m not sure he said it. Supposedly when someone asked him, “Why aren’t you married? Aren’t you afraid of being lonely?” he replied, “The loneliest I’ve ever been was when I was married.” It’s a great quote whether GC said it or not, and probably hits home with a lot of married men and women out there. Some people have marriage wired. I’m not totally against the trip down the aisle, but I don’t think I’ve found a situation where I could nail it perfectly. I’ve dated great girls. Especially in the last few years so it’s more my problem. I’m not anti-marriage, I’m anti-bad-marriage. But now Clooney has caved in and gotten married and I’m sure will have a kid by the time this book comes out. That surprised me. Plus he was the one guy I could point to as a cohort in the bachelor game when people were busting on me. By the way, I have nothing against Clooney; the guy has always been cool to me. He even showed up at the Black Sheep premiere and took a picture with my mom and danced with her so he’s okay in my book, married or not.
I also heard a great tidbit about Derek Jeter. (Do you like how I put myself in the same company as the best-looking/most famous actor and the best-looking/most famous athlete? . . . I do.) Word is that after he hooks up with a chick, he sends them tickets to a Yankees game or a signed uniform. Genius. So ballsy. Again, I don’t know if this is true but I have incorporated it into my life anyway. When girls leave my house, they can take either a Joe Dirt key chain or an Emperor’s New Groove throw pillow. If they’re still not happy, I tell them there’s a box of irregular Kate Spade purses in the garage . . . grab one on the way out . . . limit one per customer.
So now that my preamble has gone on too long, I wanted to share some wise words for you dudes out there. Take this as you will, as it is coming from a guy whose longest relationship was three lap dances in a row. I call them Chick Tricks and a few Dick Tricks.
Dick Trick: Try to stop telling your date you think every other girl on the planet is hot. You’d think this would be a no-brainer, but for some reason, I did it forever and I’m not sure why. I’ve finally stopped. Remember, girls are smarter than us, and find sneaky ways to prove it all the time. One method is to tell you that every guy you ask about isn’t hot. They have this down perfectly. Whenever I’m with some beautiful girl and she’s looking in a magazine and I say, “Would you fuck Brad Pitt? He’s hot, right?” they’re like, “Yuck. No. Not my type.” And then I’m happy. Two days later, I say “Oooh, Johnny Depp is in a new movie. I bet you’d fuck him in like two seconds.” And she’s like, “No way, he’s gross. He’s so old and such a weirdo. He looks dirty.” I’m like, “Really?” (And believe it.) Then she pulls the switcheroo. “What do you think about Jessica Alba?” Of course, I say, “Oh my God, she’s so fucking pretty!” She’s like, “Oh really? What about Rosie Huntington?” I say, “Holy shit, she’s a fucking ten.” “Would you like to have sex with them?” Like a dumbass, I say, “Of course! . . . all day, every day! Why, is it possible?!” She just stares and it finally dawns on me that I have said something wrong. She’s got that look like I was supposed to know that she was only ACTING like she wouldn’t fuck Brad Pitt and Johnny Depp. “Don’t you get what I’m doing? OF COURSE I WOULD, YOU MORON. THESE GUYS ARE BEAUTIFUL. I’D FUCK THEM ON THE HOOD OF YOUR CAR IF I COULD. PLAY THE GAME, DIPSHIT!” And then I realize . . . I probably shouldn’t have given my real opinion. I will not fall for that again . . . until she asks me about Jennifer Lawrence or any waitress . . . (By the way, I’m bluffing when I say I’d fuck anyone “all day, every day.” That’s a lie. More likely it would be twice a week; once Monday and once Thursday or Friday, and both of those would be about six minutes of boning combined with a lot of wheezing and talking about myself in between . . .)
Chick Trick: If you’re a promotional model and you’re forty, it’s time for a new vocation. Handing out Miller Lite key chains in a bar during March Madness is a four-week gig, not a lifelong modeling career. At twenty-two or twenty-six, it’s not a bad time killer to earn a few bucks, but when you’re still dragging out the bikini to hit the bar and talk to a group of guys you would have done anything to avoid ten years ago, it is time for a rethink.
Dick Trick: If you’re with a girl and you want to bring a sex toy into the relationship, buy it new and have her watch you take it out of the package. One time a girl asked if I had any toys, and I pulled one out of a drawer. She said, “I don’t think I’ll be using the community vibrator.” This made me laugh, partially because it was so accurate. Not cool, guys! Think!
Dick T
rick: When you meet a girl and start dating, they often say, “I’m not into games. Text me whenever you want, let’s just keep it real.” Girls who say they don’t want to play games are playing the best game of all. This phrase makes you drop your guard so you’re not on your game, and that way they read you a lot easier and can get more intel. It’s a trick that gives the chick the upper hand, and when that happens that early it’s just a ticking clock before she dumps you.
Dick Trick: If you’re texting a girl after midnight, the fewer words, the better, because there’s absolutely no reason to text her unless you want a late-night booty call. Keep it simple. If her phone is buzzing, she knows what you mean. I usually go with something simple like, “Yo yo yo.” Simple, elegant, and to the point. Or the more direct “Where you at yo?” My angle is to talk like a rapper; it helps give me much-needed “edge” and “street cred.” Sometimes I add “where’s the po-po?” Girls love this. You can also try “You home homie?” (Inject humor, then inject ween.)
Chick Trick: Ladies, relax with your birthday hype. I’m done with the whole “birthday week” thing. That is one thing I cannot stand. Don’t you get enough attention? After the age of nine, birthdays should naturally taper off on the excitement meter. But girls have a weird way of making birthdays a bigger and bigger deal as time goes on. Let me tell you a secret, ladies. Everyone hates your birthday week. Guys hate it because they don’t know what the fuck to do on your actual birthday, let alone on the real estate before and after that you’re also marking off to celebrate yourself. And other girls really hate it because the focus is on you consistently for seven days. Don’t you realize it’s hard enough for them to focus on you when you’re in a conversation with them when all they’re doing is waiting to talk about themselves again? And to be so self-centered that you expect these other selfish bitches to have laser focus on just you for a whole week, is really redonkulous. And if you’re ever wearing a tiara during this so-called birthday week, you need to get clocked in the head with a baseball bat by your mom. It’s embarrassing enough you’re barking out orders of where your brunch is going to be and what to wear to the pool party, and the don’t-forget-to-bring-me-a-present-every-day bullshit, and the pouty look you give your best friend when you realize she is wearing the same outfit on Monday that she did on Friday. Hey, she’s not going to shop for your birthday week and come out in different dresses for breakfast, lunch, and dinner like Carrie Underwood hosting the country music awards . . . FUCK YOU NO ONE CARES. Be more realistic. On your actual birthday night, try to get six bitches to sushi on time and not fight over the check for thirty minutes. Make them all pay for you and keep the tiara in your purse and you may keep your friends for an extra few months. Birthday Week should be a movie starring Kristen Wiig, not an actual thing you are desperately trying to organize for your life.
