Does anyone else have a problem with scuzzballs? Let me clarify.

Before I was married, I was regularly approached by the scuzziest of the scuzzballs. The married scuzz, the divorced scuzz, the white guy scuzz that wears Dickie’s and breaks into freestyle rap during normal conversations. Blagh.

Now that I am married, to a guy that’s totally not scuzzy, I very rarely go out on the town sans (this means without. See how smart I am to use weird words?) my husband. However, when I do, the scuzzball still approacheth.

Do you know how to spot a scuzzball? I’ve had plenty of experience, so I can spot them 2 football field lengths away. That would be 200 yards.

I got real good math smarts.

Scuzzballs like girls that got real good math smarts.

Here are some scuzzball examples.

First, there is the well-dressed professional scuz. He is the lawyer, the banker, the “entrepreneur”.  He likes to subtly hint at how much money he makes every three words. His wife is away on a missions trip to Zimbabwe, but he drones on about how she doesn’t understand his feelings and how she puts starving children before his needs, all the while trying to liquor you up on fruity concoctions. Scuzz doesn’t care that you’ve repeatedly told him you are married. He still makes a point to tell you how beautiful your eyes are. Ugh.

Why?

Cause he’s a scuzzball.

Then there’s the dirt poor factory laborer, giving his entire pay check to alimony and coasting his 83 Datsun down to the bar on fumes to find a third woman to marry just so he doesn’t have to pay any more alimony. Like the sharp dressed scuz, he doesn’t care that you’re married. He keeps sending Budweiser and disgusting looks your way. He may even lick his teeth tooth in a seductive way. Ugh.

Why?

Cause he’s a scuzzball.

One night I was out with my brother. I mean, if my husband isn’t around to protect me from the scuzz, then my brother surely can, right?

My brother is pretty cool. I mean, I know like 7 really cool people. My brother is one. He shares this title with some other family members, Clint Eastwood, and a sixteen year old Lhasa Apso with arthritis and dental problems named Peaches.

Brother is a guitar tech. He’s worked with a lot of bands, but is currently employed with- hmm, I hate to throw names around so here are hints.

Think locomotives, Jupiter droplets, and the amazingly weird lyrics “your lipstick stains on the front lobe of my left side brains”.

Did you figure it out?

No, it isn’t Motorhead.

Or Buster Poindexter.

Train, dammit! It’s Train!

So, one night, I am out with Broham and he’s off chatting about Fenders or Les Paul or something when
Hark! A scuzz doth approacheth.

“So, I hear your brother works with Train. I would love to get my seventeen year old daughter an autographed photo. By the way, you’re absolutely stunning. I think I’m in love.”

Ugh. Scuzzball. Major.

Stunning? Who knew I could pull off “stunning” in shorts and a Fudpuckers’ tee shirt? Pick a better adjective, sick-o.

First of all, I’m old enough to be your daughter’s sister, not her mother.

Secondly, why do I have to be the middleman? Just go ask my brother for what you need.  I’m sure he’d be glad to help. Just don’t call him stunning.

Thirdly, do you have to chlorinate that Coolwater Cologne before you swim in it?

And number four, you’re a scuzzball.

Disgusted at the scuzz, and frustrated that I can’t go anywhere alone, I went home to my husband- the only dude to hit on me in 2001 that wasn’t a grade-A scuzzball.

Beware the scuzz.

Beware the over use of adjectives such as stunning and ravishing.

Beware the sob story about how every woman in his life, past and present, doesn’t understand him or appreciate him or approve of his request to use bologna in the bedroom.

Beware the date rape drugs hanging from his pocket, looking to find their way into your Slush Puppy or Appletini.

Beware the rampant use of hair gel, gold chains, and chest hair resembling taco meat spilling forth.

Whatever you do, don’t marry the scuzz! You’ll be doing in missions work in Siberia, reading to a little Eskimo child named Akiak, sharing a Klondike bar and cuddled in a bear rug, all the while your scuzz hubs is telling me how beautiful my eyes are down at a fundraiser for the American Spleen Association.

Beware the scuzz.

If you can. 

Scuzzball