The Loser Syndrome


Майкъл Кешмън


(For a pitifully beguiled and most unlucky Clover)

Some women, in this crazily haphazard world of ours, do not seem to appreciate the heartfelt gentleman, but rather somehow always find themselves in the heartless clutches of the insatiable scoundrel and soulless ruffian. You probably have had the nauseating misfortune to meet these types of individuals, who we unfortunately come into contact with on our journey through life. They are grotesquely bound to such misguided women in a tragic comedy of errors that stands in stark contrast to all the known rules of reason and sensibility. These somewhat attractive, seemingly intelligent women and their much out of place and thoroughly oafish stooges/boyfriends illustrate the dark side of human nature. Even at a distant furtive glance, the mind begins to boggle and asks itself the ultimate question, “What is wrong with this picture?”

My readers are no doubt aware of the kind of men about which I speak. In England they are called “rogues” and “cads”, while in the States they are called, “creeps" and plain old “losers”. Here in Bulgaria, having a very descriptive language, they are known as “gnusen neshtastnik” or the more common garden variety of “smotaniak!” Often they resemble swollen cheeked, chipmunk-like creatures; who after being deprived of their mother's milk and affection at an early crucial age, become driven by inept inadequacies and tend to compensate by consuming copious amounts of beer(often at the expense of others)later in the post larvae stage of their malformed development. The very same mother that initially neglects them early on in life is often burdened with housing them and caring for them well into their 40's. I am referring to the male gender of a species, closely related to our own, that would only unwillingly hold the door open for a lady if they were in the process of making a mad dash from the scene of the crime so as to not leave any witnesses behind that could later tell the police their name. They can also be readily identified by their eyes that are so beady that, if one listens closely enough, they can hear them squeak when they rub against each other. This is especially true when the adult-aged dullard is shiftily glancing around to see if anyone is watching them steal the candy from a slumbering baby's grasp or money from a drunken woman's purse that has the unfortunate status of being their date for the evening. When a true gentleman asks the women that are perversely enthralled with such an individual, “What in the hell...?!” They simply reply, “Well, there is just something about him that intrigues me.” Well there is something about a two-headed, three-legged goat with a severe case of mange and a bad urinary tract infection that would intrigue me in a sickly odd kind of way, but I would not want to go dancing with one or invite it home for a candlelit supper! These feckless women will even seek to gain the acquisition of the diabolical object of their exceedingly misguided affection by using the romantically inclined gentleman as a pawn in a sick game of emotional chess. A detrimental game they hope to win by sacrificing the unknowing participant in order to acquire the wandering attention of these scum skimming bottom-feeders in a desperate gambit that will eventually, in the long-run, see themselves as the ultimate loser.

The Mothers of these miscreants often dress them in attire that is best suited for the discotheque which they often swarm to in their never ending search for fresh victims. There they line up fervently, in a tightly gathered drove of their garish suede hat wearing brethren, and stare at the large boldly printed sign on the front door that reads, “CLOSED FOREVER” in the forlorn hope that it is some sort of a misprint or just a terrible joke. All the while, and hopefully unbeknownst to each other, sporting disposable plastic briefs from the Laurel and Hardy Collection beneath their plaid polyester action wear that brazenly bear the trademark slogan, “This is another fine mess you've gotten us into, Ollie!” Please don't laugh, oh my most gracious and enlightened readers; for this is the serious dilemma which faces many otherwise perfectly sane women across the world afflicted with the malicious malady known as “Loser Syndrome” and indeed it is no matter for jest. Hopefully someday medical science will come up with a cure for these fecklessly fickle females, until then we must all be as understanding and sympathetic to their tragic plight as humanly possible. (Special thanks to the dearly departed Douglas Adams, whose works I have often found a source of inspiration when dealing with life's intrinsic complexities...)

October 2007