There is a small and wonderfully mediocre pub down the road from my house whose only defining characteristics are the devoted apathy of the staff, and the fact that it is generally busiest between 2pm and 4pm. Since it is the only bar within walking distance from my house, and nobody has ever complained when I take my unfinished beer home with me, I am a loyal patron. When I’m hungry, but I don’t feel like preparing a meal, i’ll make the short walk down the road and mold myself onto the stool at the corner of the bar. It’s my favorite. The staff may be apathetic, but they’re not stupid. By now they know that if I show up before the sun goes down, and I’m alone, I’m there because I need some comfort food, and they’re usually gracious enough to have a nice filling Guiness poured for me before I’m even done fidgeting onto my barstool.

A few nights ago, I was at the bar for my customary liquid snack, and as I nursed my second Guiness draft, drawing mystic designs in the foam at the top of the glass with my special beer drinking straw, I couldn’t help but overhear bits of the conversation between the two girls sitting beside me. It consisted mostly of mindless chatter about periods and back fat, and whatever else girls always talk about, but one part of their drivel did stand out enough for me to pay closer attention.

What happened was, a young man, similar in age to the girls, left his group of friends and came up to the bar to order another drink. As he waited for his adult beverage he plucked up enough courage to smile at the girls, and told the closest one, “Hi. I like your scarf.”

The she-witches only response was to glare at him like he had just admitted to killing and eating the Lindbergh baby, which went on until he received his drink and returned to his group of friends. When he departed, Girl 2 stage whispered to Girl 1,

“Like, Oh my glob, did you even know that guy?”

And Girl 1 replied, “No! Can you believe it? What a creeper!”

And then they laughed evilly and buried their snouts in their fruity cocktails.

Really. He is a creeper? Why? He seemed relatively handsome, in that both his eyes pointed in the same direction and he had the traditional number of arms and legs, on top of which he not only had friends, but those friends appeared normal as well. What made him achieve creeper status? What he had said wasn’t even aggressively flirtacious or sexual.

From what I saw, a young man said a pleasant thing to a young woman, and he was immediately  punished for it. I should have shaken an admonishing finger at those girls and said “Hey! That poor boy just said something nice to you, the least you could have done was graciously accept his compliment, you fat cow. Judging from your snaggly teeth and your girlfriend’s lustrous mustache, i’m guessing compliments don’t come your way often, so maybe you don’t know the accepted method for receiving them. Generally you’re supposed to smile and nod and feel better about yourself.” Or something along those lines.

I should have said that. But I didn’t. I didn’t say anything. If scarf-boy was considered a creeper, what would they call the guy sitting alone drinking his guiness out of a twisty straw?

I don’t feel like a creeper. And yet…according to any female I’ve ever spoken to, every single guy in the world IS a creeper. Your dad? He’s a creeper. Santa Claus? Creeper. The sweet baby Jesus? You better believe he’s a creeper. Girls certainly are not prejudiced when it comes to applying the creeper label, you have to give them that. Not just ugly guys are creepers. Handsome guys are too. Not just shy, or nervous guys are creepers. Evidently every single guy that is ever nice to any girl ever is a creeper. Whenever a guy thinks a girl is pretty or cool, his feelings are wrong and evil, and he should be ashamed. As soon as he tries to flirt even a little, that means that he is an abominable deviant, and must be dragged out into the woods and shot, Old Yeller style.

The worst part is, this is absolutely a one way road. When a girl makes the effort to speak to me, even if she is not someone I may be interested in, i’m flattered. Do you know why? Because it’s a human being…being nice to me. It makes me feel nice. And I want to be nice back, but I can’t, because then i’d be a creeper.

It’s just not fair. Do you know why? Because creepers actually exist. There ARE true creepers. I know. I’ve seen them. As a guy, who isn’t blinded by a woman’s flawed and inaccurrate creeptrovision, I can tell the difference. The sweaty guy in the cheese-stained wife beater asking you if the chloroform on his rag smells weird, is a creeper. The nervous kid asking you your name at the bar…not a creeper. Just shy. The hairy guy who punched you in the teat and locked you up in the trunk of his Cadillac, that’s your uncle Mort. And also, he’s a creeper. The male classmate holding the door open for you on your way in to your German Film lecture, not a creeper. Just a gentleman. Are you seeing the difference?

Additionally ladies, have you ever thought that maybe, maaaaaybe, you’re asking for it? I’m not saying that by dressing up like a slut-whore, with your titties hanging out and your stink hole giving everybody the stink eye out of the bottom of your miniskirt, that you’re actually inviting men to come up and talk to you. I understand that you’ve just spent hours on your hair and makeup, and worn your sluttiest dress with your 17″ stripper heels only because you secretly hate your girlfriends, and you want to show them up by looking more fabulous than them, the judgemental skanks. I understand your motivation, but not all men do. You’ll have to forgive them, the poor fools. They think you’re dressed up like a slut because…you are a slut. They actually believe that you’re all skanked out because you want some male attention. It’s naive, I know, but this is what most guys actually think.

Even worse is when you throw out totally mixed signals. If, last thirsty-thursday, you went out to the bar, and right at that crucial moment when the tequila shots were interacting with your natural insecurities to make you particularly suggestible, Ralph from economics asked you for a dance, and you ended up giving him a blowjob in the men’s bathroom, you’re going to have to deal with the fact that the next time he sees you out he is going to assume that you don’t hate him. Please remember, he is a simple creature. He believes that stall-job he received was because you liked the popped-collar on his polo and that your previous encounter was actually about him, not your repressed daddy issues. You have every right to set him straight of course, but please, be gentle. He’s not trying to be a creeper. He’s just a little confused. If you politely explain that you are not interested, he will leave you alone.

Basically girls, you have to stop calling guys something they’re not. It’s not fair to stereotype or shoehorn vastly different people into one all-inclusive and hurtful category.

You bitches.