So far, I've written a page implying that both high school girls and college girls are slightly more intelligent than a house plant. I did a page about being deceitful to little kids. Hell, I even suggested that maybe a girl should go out with me. Am I really the twisted bastard I appear to be or is there a gooey nougat center inside this bitter, candy-coated chocolate shell? Am I a mouth-watering piece of tender man chicken or just a bowl of cold ice cream sitting on the kitchen counter melting and making a big mess that my mom will have to clean up? I assure you, I'm a soft, fresh-baked pan of pure stud muffin. And I also assure you I'll never write another paragraph while I'm hungry. Crap, that didn't make sense. Beggars can't be choosers. That's why I have sex with cars. If you've decided to keep on reading after seeing me molest a Volkswagen, then you're soon going to discover that I'm not some sick, heartless, demented weirdo who humps cars. In fact, I'm a kind, caring, sensitive philanthropist who humps cars. I figure I should offer you some sort of background information on me so you know what kind of past I'm coming from. When I was a little kid I was fat. No joke. Every day I'd wake up and think, "Ah, fuck I have tits." And these weren't those "Wahoo, Girls Gone Wild video" boobs. These were "Oh crap, nobody's going to pass the basketball to me during gym class because I resemble a woman" boobs. The fact that my mouth was usually filled with sandwich led to all of the bottled up anger you may have seen when I type swear words. Thankfully, I'm not a big tub o' goo anymore, so any naughty words you may read are just due to me being an ass. I was born near Littleton, CO. For those of you who were in a cave drawing pictures of gazelles with your own feces a couple years ago, this was the place where those crazy dillweeds went crazy in Columbine because they got called gay too many times. This fact isn't really important, I just thought I should point out that I was born near Crazytown, USA. Any conspiracy theorists can make note of that now. And then drink a bag full of land mines. I don't have Tourette Syndrome. I just thought I should clarify that. There, now you know all of my past, give or take 17 years of trauma. But the past doesn't really matter that much, considering people don't assume I'm a peckerhead because I couldn't see my ankles when I was 8. People think I'm a baby-eating cult member because I say bad things, and the point of this page is to clear it up that I'm not in a cult at all. Babies, however, are still scrumptious. Like Oprah, this book is thick and always open. Take that, you tubby slut talkshow host. I think one thing that makes me a generally unfuckhead type of person is the fact that I usually don't act like a total jerk. In fact, if you were to ask a woman who knows me well and who hasn't taken me to court yet, she should admit that I wouldn't ever say anything bad to a woman. If she says otherwise, she's a lying bitch and I hate her. The story of Henry and women is quite simple. Boy meets Girl. Boy falls for Girl. Boy loses Girl. Girl tells Boy to stop calling late at night. Boy continues to call Girl because he won't fall for her reverse psychology bullshit. Girl tells Boy that she really isn't kidding and if he doesn't stop then Girl will get Girl's Boyfriend to beat up Boy. Boy calls again. Days later, Boy meets Ex-Con Truck Driver in prison. Boy gets...uh...I think I'll stop there. I think I suffer from Nice Guy Syndrome, a common disease that rots your chances of ever getting a woman and causes some mild chafing. As the word "syndrome" implies, having Nice Guy Syndrome is not something to celebrate. It's just another way for Life to stomp the hell out of your genitals while happily whistling the theme from Happy Days. For those of you who don't know what Nice Guy Syndrome is, aside from the fact that I just made it up, read on to see why not punching women will make them hate you. What is Nice Guy Syndrome? If you actually care what this page has had to say so far, this question has made you scratch your head because you're in deep thought or you have head lice. So whether you're thinking or infected with parasites, I'm going to tell you exactly what having Nice Guy Syndrome means. This particular disorder requires that the person, usually a guy, treats all women with respect, acts sensitively toward them, and listens to all the crap they have to say without falling asleep or turning on ESPN. While one might think "Wow, any guy who does that sure must have a lot of women jumping into his pants", the grim reality of the matter is that girls don't want a man who will do all of these things. Why would a woman have someone who treat them properly when the abusive boyfriend provides a much more exciting lifestyle? He can generously give her copious amounts of black eyes, unsightly bruises, and trips to the hospital! What a deal! Another aspect of having NGS is that you're most likely going to get walked all over like some sort of kind, understanding rug that never gets sex. Falling victim to this affliction will lead to severe spinal problems from constantly bending over so Life can rape you. Here's a sample conversation of me with an attractive woman that I made up to show how not being a bastard will only ruin your chances. ME: Hi there, attractive woman. Would you like to go see a movie with me? HOT GIRL: Sure. ME: Really? HOT GIRL: No, you're just too nice. ME: Fuck! Or here's a different scenario where I end up destroying any dignity I have left. ME: Hey Hot Girl, would you want to come over for some rough sex? HOT GIRL: No, I have a boyfriend. Could I bring him? ME: Uh...what? HOT GIRL: Ok then, it's a date. Me and my boyfriend are going to have sex on your bed. ME: What the hell? HOT GIRL: And no, you can't watch. But since you're so sweet, you can provide the condoms for the wild fornication that will be happening all over your sheets. ME: Sure, I will. I'm a pushover. Hey, how about I buy you some sex toys so you and your boyfriend don't get bored while making a big mess all over my pillows? HOT GIRL: That'd be great. You're so nice! ME: Fuck! Or hey, let's pretend for a moment that a girl finally answers "yes" to all of my questions. ME: Hello, woman whom I shall admire for her mind and not at all for her outer appearance. What's your phone number? HOT GIRL: Yes. ME: What the hell? Did you even hear me? HOT GIRL: Yes. ME: So would you like to hang out some time? HOT GIRL: Yes. ME: Hey, what time is it? HOT GIRL: Yes! ME: Fuck! Just imagine two strangers having sex on this bed. Not so innocent anymore, is it? That, ladies and gentlemen, is why I never talk to a woman while she's screaming out for her boyfriend while making with the sex all over my race car bed. Nice Guy Syndrome prevents me from putting my foot down on top of somebody's face while wearing cleats. It also stops me from shedding the title of "guy friend I can tell anything" that women find it so easy to place on me. Thanks for sabotaging my sex life, inner kindness. What would I be like if I decided to get rid of this ailment? Let's see a final scenario summing up what my sex life would be like if I wasn't me. ME: Make me a fucking roast, bitch! (Beats HOT GIRL with a tire iron) HOT GIRL: Marry me! (Spits tooth) If that isn't a great way to get women then obviously modeling my dating habits after those pixel-faced guys on Cops isn't the best idea. Is Henry really a fuckhead? Will he ever find true love? What's the capitol of Romania? The answers to these questions and more can be found on: Page 2