You'd think an all women's college like Wellesley would be relatively free of this kind of asshat behavior, but the case of Jeremy Pham, a Dartmouth student in an exchange program at Wellesley, goes to prove that boys really can't handle single-sex schools, even if the sex is female (however, he certainly shows that you can learn valuable life lessons from opposite-sex peers, in this case, mostly about how not to act). A couple of weeks ago, he noticed a post on Wellesley FML (Fuck My Life, a message board for whining, basically) that read: "I'm the only guy of a campus of 2,300 girls but I'm still not getting any." Despite the fact that he is not the only guy at Wellesley, Pham assumed that the poster was impersonating him. On November 21st, he responded by posting an angry message on Wellesley's general discussion forum. In it's crap entirety, here is Pham's tirade:

I don't speak much, since I'm pretty reserved by nature and I'm never really around either (I'm always doing projects at the other school in Cambridge). But since Wellesley girls apparently insist on writing false posts under my name, as well as treating my friends that visit here like crap just because they're not 5'9 and don't possess the male-dominated social space of the MIT fratboy that's fucking the shit out of you nightly, I present to you...what normal, rational people think of you girls:

1) You are all a bunch of whores. No, seriously. The stereotype that Wellesley girls obsess over men is so true that it's not even funny. Go to a normal school like Dartmouth (where one of your girls won't leave after 4 terms because she wants to milk the place for all it's worth) and you'll see that nobody there obsesses to the degree that the people in the 5th percentile here do. Consequently, you all make poor decisions. Which is why people on the Internet laugh at you. Which is why people on the Internet will laugh at you even more when I make a reddit post detailing my experiences here.

2) You are all undeserving of the education and opportunities you have received. The sense of entitlement here is actually kind of incredible. Just to make sure it just wasn't me, my friend visiting right now notices it too. And he's much more outgoing, friendly, and chill than I am. But he's not 5'9, so sorry girls. But there are some insecure dudes littering the streets of Commonwealth for your amusement.

3) You are all too easy. Some of us refuse to participate in the orgy of sexual tension here because we want to be respected for who we are, not what we are. Of course, for others, it's as easy as dropping the MIT/Harvard moniker. I mean, what idiot thinks a meaningful relationship can develop out of a superficial encounter at a party? Seriously, WTF. At my school, there aren't that many relationships. But at least we're honest about the fact that most of us are just merely infatuated with the other party, and not actually "in love."

Do not make up shit under false pretenses. Do not treat my friends like shit. Do it one more time, and I will sue you. It's so funny that there's this Wellesley Community discussion group thing going on, but if you girls can't do something as trivial as leave me alone to do my own thing, you guys have no shot at forming a cohesive community. No fucking chance.

And I'll just sit back and enjoy the schadenfreude.

Aside from the misogynistic rage Pham has been harboring, he also displays a fundamental confusion as to whether Wellesley girls are "whores" or too picky. I suppose he means they are whores because they aren't interested in him - or his average-height friends. It's actually rather uninspired. Lacking anything better to criticize, he goes the "slut" route, which is always odd when the general complaint is that he feels neglected. And this is just one example of just how shockingly un-self-aware this guy is. Probably the funniest - read: crappiest - bit is when he speaks to the "sense of entitlement" at Wellesley, while bemoaning the fact that his "friend" didn't get any during his visit. While it's obvious what he feels entitled to (sex for him and his buddies) I'm not sure what Wellesley girls are supposed to be demanding. Perhaps the right to choose who to fuck? Those whores!

But the Pham-saga doesn't end here. Naturally, many Wellesley women were annoyed by Pham's message, which was posted on a board that can be viewed by both students and faculty. In a surprising moment of clarity, Pham thought it best he apologize. But even that didn't go so well:

Let me first begin by apologizing for my tone and perhaps the language that I used to address some of my own feelings as being one of the few, if not only, males on campus. It isn't easy for me to be accepted in the Wellesley community. Wellesley has been be a wonderful learning experience and many people here have been welcoming to me. At the same time, hearing "What are you doing here?" when walking through the halls and being judged solely based on my looks can be hard for me. I hope you can understand that.

The "apology," in which he continues to blame Wellesley women for being shallow bitches, goes on for quite some time. He vacillates between praising the intelligence of the student body, and whining about the horrible treatment that has made him so bitter. And then there is this:

A college community is the perfect place to learn from one another. I have learned that many people do care about community and how I as "a man" can fit into it. This was my original hope when I wrote my first post. I do care about this community and do want to learn different points of views about a multitude of topics. But to do this, we need to respect each other. I hope that we can equally show each other some kindness and respect.

I can only be a productive and positive member of this community if we work together. But it can be hard when I feel ostracized here.

He ends with a request that everyone comes together to "continue building community" and forget the whole I just called y'all a bunch of whores thing. Not a perfect apology, but not nearly as bad as what came next. The blog What Estrogen captured a screenshot of Pham's status, which went up shortly after the "apology" was posted to the message board. He must have forgotten that Wellesley students can view his Facebook, because he posted this:

alright so because someone wrote some false post about me on the intarw3b at wellesley, i wrote this post calling them all entitled whores and whatnot; clearly as a troll (and to some extent, you have to admit that that is true) on the open forum @ wellesley and there was a SHITSTORM of responses. while the whole community is out protesting and acting all butthurt, i'm just sitting around lol'ing.

you fuck with me, and i'll plant a dagger in your ass. simple as that.

How contrite. But, like any good Crap Emailer, Pham is nothing if not voluble. Later the same evening, he dumped this steaming pile of shit on the message board:

[I'm really sorry…]
...for ever coming here. And calling all of you whores. Clearly, some of you are still very upset about my Community post, but I have learned a lot about the difficulties that a woman faces every single day in America. It brings a tear to my eye (metaphorically) to know that some of you are very passionate about women's rights, but I feel that your energies are misdirected. Sure you will deal with me and eradicate me from this campus in style, but your problems will still be there. Your inability to get to the root of the issues that plague our world will still be there. While other guys give me fist pumps and brag about their conquests at this school, I must endure the brunt of your criticisms so that you may all be united under the banner of activism.

And it worked perfectly.

There are real instances of women here actually being alienated from the rest of the Wellesley community. There are real cases of rape and belligerent boyfriends. My hope was that you would all unite to chastise such an extremely contemptible figure so that these issues cannot be ignored. Because honestly, what's the difference between saying thoughts behind your backs, and posting them live? There is no intrinsic difference. And yet, the perception differs, and so I wanted to explore that today. My hope was that some of these alienated women on campus can venture out of their rooms and be embraced by a community that's trying to flame me relentlessly. If I had written something benign, only a few people would have acknowledged it, and that would have been that. Nothing like controversy to stir up the day.

While I was writing the apparently insufficient apology last night, the police officer came into my room to make sure that everything was okay. I chuckled and told him that everything was okay. He wanted to offer me protection from the perhaps inevitable fallout from my polemic. Later, he read my letter and told me that it was cool, and it was the best I could have done...

Also, controversies like this happen all the time. Given the knowledge that the ACLU has my back and that I'm protected by the First Amendment, and the fact that friends who were journalists at other schools attempted similar stunts (with surprising degrees of success that resulted from open dialogue), I figured that this could turn out to be pretty sweet. And just so you know, nothing will happen to me. So for those of you seeking administrative intervention, you are only wasting your time. And for those of you seeking media attention, by all means. But understand that it'll also mean that I get my facetime, and you just can't spin a 2300 gang up on a lone campus figure in any positive way, especially given that I was trolling (even then, you wouldn't need that requirement). Also just so you know, assault or throwing water at someone's face is not protected by the First Amendment (or any). Of course, the event was trivial enough as it was, but if things escalate...

And do any of you honestly believe that I hold these misogynistic views? Please. Get real here. I hold a degree from the best trolling school of all time. I was pissed that you guys used my identity though. And to be honest, this whole debacle IS kind of hilarious. Let's be honest here. It's pretty damn hilarious.

Take a minute to let that sink in. Pham was only calling a group of 2,300 women whores because he was hoping they would band together to stop rape. The only thing I find hilarious about this whole fiasco is that Pham actually thinks someone will believe his "I was just trolling" bravado and congratulate him for his bravery. Sex and the Ivy astutely compares Pham's sudden change of tune to a horrible plot twist, borrowed from the school of M. Night Shyamalan. A few hours later, he realizes that people actually read his Facebook status, and so he issues another "apology" for threatening to penetrate his haters with daggers (you can read it here; I'm getting sick of quoting this guy). This apology is somewhat better, although after all that he has already said, it's impossible to take it seriously. This is only reinforced by his Facebook update the following day:

Jeremy Pham thanks his friends and appreciates the outpouring of support from all people all across the nation. I have never been prouder to be a Dartmouth student. Thanks ACLU. Jeremy Pham also wonders just how the orgy of cattiness will proceed. Jeremy Pham also thanks Kerry and her friends for the death threats.

In case it wasn't already clear, calling a group of women catty whores is not exactly the best way to get them to sleep with you, or even to build some sort of activist "community." It may also have gotten him expelled from the exchange program. According to a tipster, Pham "is no longer at Wellesley," and was recently escorted out of his room. This has not been verified, but the Wellesley student reports that Pham could be facing possible suspension from Dartmouth for violating the honor code and "using obscene language that suggests sexual harassment."

Dartmouth Student Jeremy Pham Will "Plant A Dagger In Your Ass," Thinks Wellesley Women Are "A Bunch Of Whores" [Sex And The Ivy]
JPhamgate 2009 [What Estrogen]
Wellesley FML [Original Post]

In 2004, major league baseball team the Oakland A's had a Mother's Day promotion. Before the game they sponsored a 5K run for breast cancer research, arranged for free mammograms for the women present, and gave out floppy plaid sun hats to the first 7,500 ladies to arrive. Rava attended the event, and when he was not presented with a hat of his own, he decided to sue.

As Rick Reilly reports for ESPN The Magazine, Rava's case is nearly won:

A judge has given preliminary approval to a $510,000 settlement — roughly half to lawyers and the rest to the "victims" — the poor, downtrodden gender-disadvantaged waifs like Rava who didn't get their floppy Mother's Day hats. This is where you come in.

If you can prove you were one of the first 7,500 people there that day, you get $50 in cash, two-for-one A's tickets and a $25 Macy's coupon. It won't be hard. All you have to do is (A) state under oath that you are a male, (B) show some kind of receipt for your ticket and (C) swear you were there early. That's good enough. There's no video, and nobody's going to spend $5,000 deposing you over $100.

So far no one has come forward to claim any hat money, and several fans have spoken out against the lawsuit. "The entire settlement should be donated to the Breast Care Center at UCSF," says A's fan (and decent human being) Ben Huber.

But this isn't the first time Rava has sued over male discrimination: Rava has been involved in more than 40 male anti-discrimination lawsuits, sometimes as the plaintiff, but other times as the plaintiff's lawyer. He has sued restaurants and nightclubs for their women-only promotions, and he sued the Angels for giving away a $1.45 tote bag to women in 2005. He also sued Club Med for a vacation package that offered women a $400 discount on airfare (as reported here, at Mensactivism.org). While we recognize that some of these cases aren't all that fair, Rava seems like a real asshole. After realizing that Rava doesn't live or work in Oakland, Reilly phoned up Rava to ask him why he was at the A's game the very same day that they were holding a women-only giveaway. Rava wouldn't say. Reilly finally asked him the question everyone is thinking what would your mother say?:

"I am sure my mom would be proud of my lawsuit against this major league baseball franchise that denied male and female consumers under 18 years of age free fishing hats based on sex and age," he says.

Sadly, Rava's mother is unable to support or refute his comments. She died at age 53 of breast cancer.

Make $100 The Sleazy Way [ESPN]

Anyway, Jeremy is a 28-year-old University of Michigan grad who claims he makes $300,000 a year hosting such events as "Rich Guys & Hot Girls" — for which interested gentlemen submitted W-2s and women submitted five pictures. He claims his defining influence was the movie National Lampoon's Van Wilder. He drives a Segway. And he has an alterego, Richard Nouveau, who he claims is a "mockery of the white upper class." A mockery, eh? See if you can tell the Nouveau quotes from Jeremy's own, below!

1. "Society has taught us to not publicly acknowledge the obvious. Women want money in a man, men want beauty in a woman—this is a factual force of nature."

2. "It's sad and disgusting and it's superficial. [But] the only victims are the poor and the ugly."

3. "This genetic cleansing is how the wealthy stays beautiful."

4. "There are no more powerful things in our culture than wealth and sex. It's a female's best asset and a male's best asset."

5. "I started sleeping with a girl on the student council — not the most attractive girl, but she had an incredible libido."

6. "I lifted my dating embargo on Orientals. (I've decided to overlook the constant squinting.)"

7. "I'm here for the eye candy."

8. "I'm not looking for anything long-term, I don't think you'll find anything too high-caliber in fashion."

Confession: I added a quote from a 27-year-old investment banking intern attending Fashion Meets Finance, just for fun. Do you see the point? You wouldn't date a dude who said any one of these things, except maybe #7 in the context of escorting a nephew to a Magic The Gathering convention or something. Because nothing is more depressing than listening to the stillborn attempts at humor of people whose percentile in the ranks of relative social/educational/cultural/financial privilege is rivaled only by the score they got in "How Unexamined A Life Can I Lead." Well, nothing except the thoughts of a 20-year-old handbag designing attendee of "Fashion Meets Finance":

"You might ge a nice dinner out of it, so why not?"

I was naive and I was romantic…and I think those are good things, to be naive and romantic and still believe in…love or something.

Yeah, of course, fuck that. I can't hang out with those people. Amusingly, one apparently will only submit to an interview if he digitally alters her voice, and then it turns out he has impotence problems, etc. etc. Here is the trailer.

A Complete History Of My Sexual Failures [Official Movie Site]
Sundance Review: A Complete History Of My Sexual Failures [Variety]

He thinks Naipaul subject his mistress to a "species of soul murder," and that the book will destroy his reputation. What becomes of a widely-accepted genius who is later proven to be a colossally horrible person? Wrong question to ask, guys!

So, to put you in the mood, is a story the Washington Post ran back when he won the Nobel in 2001 after writer Linton Weeks had tea with Naipaul and his fourth wife Nadira Alvi

He has never had children. "Never wanted any," he says in his
tea-with-cream tone. His first wife probably did want kids "at some
stage," he says, but "the thought was very disagreeable to me."

Laughing, Alvi tells of Naipaul seeing a baby in a carriage not too
long ago. He pointed and exclaimed, "Look, look, look! What an ugly
little brute!"

The mother, Alvi says, was mortified.

She holds this up as an example of her husband's wit.

"Quality of wit is something that is with someone all the time," Naipaul says.

He offers two more examples of his wittiness: Novelist and critic
Elizabeth Hardwick once asked him why Indian women wear the bindi mark
on their foreheads. He told her: "It means, 'My head is empty.' "

Naipaul and wife laugh and laugh.

Okay, so also in that story, Naipaul is quoted saying he didn't know why he had been awarded that particular year. "It remains a mystery. I think that perhaps the prize had run a little bit into, kind of, the doldrums." See, he'd sort of given up on winning in 1988, when he said: "Of course I won't get it - they'll give it to some nigger or other." He grew up in Trinidad, which he also blames for his lifelong distaste for music.

After years of using prostitutes, the turning point in Naipaul's life comes in 1972 when he finds a woman he desires: Margaret, whom he has met in Buenos Aires. She apparently refused to be interviewed for the book, but her archived love letters supply the missing narrative. They are rapturous, despairing, pleading, speaking of "his cruel sexual desires". She acknowledges that he is her black master, that he regards his penis as a god, that she will worship it, abase herself.

This word "master", used often in the letters, is interesting. It is a slave word. In role playing - and most of these love letters refer to highly eroticised power games - the master is regarded as dominant; but, paradoxically, it is usually the submissive person, the masochist, who has the ultimate power - maddening for the sadist.

Here is one instance. Margaret shows up unexpectedly in Wiltshire. Naipaul is displeased with her. He beats her and afterwards explains, "I was very violent with her for two days with my hand; my hand began to hurt . . . She didn't mind at all. She thought of it in terms of my passion for her. Her face was bad. She couldn't appear really in public. My hand was swollen."

"Margaret was Vidia's ideal woman," French writes. "He could string her along and mistreat her with her abject consent." He later writes, in paraphrase, "She said she had done things to Vido that would have made her sick with anybody else, and yet she longed for the time when she could do them again." It is no exaggeration to describe the relationship between Naipaul and Margaret as a version of The Story of O.

Eventually Naipaul told his wife Pat about the relationship, divulging some details and showing her intimate photographs. She was devastated but stayed with him and he was reluctant to offer a divorce. He gave her literary jobs to do, went on reading his rough drafts of his fiction to her - in which the sex scenes were based on the rough sex he enjoyed with Margaret.

And here's some more of that Post story:

He offers two more examples of his wittiness: Novelist and critic
Elizabeth Hardwick once asked him why Indian women wear the bindi mark
on their foreheads. He told her: "It means, 'My head is empty.' "

Naipaul and wife laugh and laugh.

Another time he was conducting an interview on the radio and he asked
an author a question. The author answered it. "Laudable, most
laudable," Naipaul said. "Now coming back to your wretched book . . ."

Naipaul and wife laugh.

...
He does cry. When he watches old movies like "High Sierra." And the
scene in "The Roaring Twenties" when James Cagney is dying and Gladys
George says, "He used to be a big shot."

One morning Alvi heard her husband weeping as he woke up. He was
remembering how hard it had been to get a start as a writer.

He likes for Alvi to read to him. She will pick up a book by her
husband and read aloud. "He's amazed by what he's written," she says.

And sometimes he's so moved, he cries.

I know, I know, I kind of want to read his books now too! Good thing I am lazy.

Paul Theroux claims new biography reveals monster inside V.S. Naipaul [Times of London]

I do believe that advertisers create the reality to be consumed first and then women solidify the image by reproducing it and voting with their purchasing power. It then becomes a lived reality. I believe that, as a culture, we are too far into the matrix of this particular cultural mandate and constructed reality to question the originations of it or to ponder whether it is physically, mentally and socially healthy.

The Marijuana Tax Act

This is a bonus chapter not relating to anything else in the book. This chapter explores how the interests of a few powerful individuals at both the government and public level worked together to pass the Marijuana Tax Act of 1937. The propaganda campaign launched in the early 1930's that led to the passage of the Marijuana Tax Act permanently changed the way the public viewed the cannabis plant and marijuana smoking by rallying the emotions o the public against such substances.

While Straight's exact identity is still unclear — I'm hoping he turns out to be the same Benjamin Straight responsible for writing The Two-Finger Diet, because that guy looks like a studddd — I'm nominating him tentatively for the title of "Douche Du Jour." Because unlike the more exotic/pathetic brands exhibited by Paul Janka, John Fitzgerald Page, the Drunken Stepfather and such, there is something all too genuine and familiar in his misogyny. Note the special brand of contempt he seems to reserve for people (men and women) who work out and yet remain somewhat chubby in parts! Think he was rejected by a girl at the gym? Or does it take the military contractor to fuck a dude up this bad? Read and ponder, below.

From: Benjamin Straight Date: Feb 6, 2008 9:03 AM Subject: I am a law school girl To:

This accounts for some 80% of the gunch at law school. Of course- if you are a chick and read this- you will say, "He's not talking about me...." Yeah, just like Lil' Jon ain't talking about you while you are in your slut outfit at the club dancing to 'skeet skeet skeet' at 2 in the morning.

I am a law school girl (snatch, gunch, clam, whisker biscuit- pick your subject synonym).

Let's get one thing straight up front- I am not here to learn. I am here to prove something.

As you pretend to listen to me so that you can fuck me, I will probably tell you that either my uncle molested me or that I was raped when I was 15. I also never knew my father. I was high school class president, president of my sorority, student body president of my undergrad, a 4.0 student in my psychology major, maxed the LSAT, but chose UF because it is the cheapest for the best education. I also earned the money to pay for the brand new BMW that I drive (even though I am only 22). I am under-valued, overly-perfect, and haven't bothered to audition for American Idol because it would be unfair to the rest of the competition. I have tried every diet, perfect to the direction, but still can't lose the extra 5 lbs. stuck on my ass. However, I will pretend that the weight doesn't exist by sticking out my tits and dressing fashionable.

I am here to prove my fashion sense. I watch Sex in the City, therefore I am. Miranda and Charlotte wear Prada and carry Fendi bags, so do I- but just don't tell anyone I got them as knockoffs from a Chinese seller on Ebay. Miranda is a big-city power attorney and so am I- just in rural northern Florida. I wear the big Paris Hilton sunglasses because I want to look important. In fact, I am Paris Hilton. I am even this important in class, on rainy days, and at 8 in the evening. There may be a barrage of paparazzi just around the corner and I have to be prepared for their snapshots.

I hate Britney Spears, but I carry my Starbucks around like her and check the gossip columns every class to see what she is doing now. I even have a pet rat dog that I carry in a purse and bring to school to show how Bohemian I truly am. There is something I love about becoming rich for being a sex symbol, and I secretly want old men to jerk off to my image at 3 in the morning. Speaking of being a sex symbol, respect me for my mind. I may have fake tits, lips, and cheeks, but you are never to look at any of my plastic snap-on parts or I will consider bringing a sexual harassment claim against you with Dean Inman. I wear just enough clothing to cover my fake tits and love to show them off, even when it is 32 degrees outside. They are my table centerpiece. Every day is a Thanksgiving Spread and my tits are the stuffed turkey. I also love showing my legs that are either too skinny from starving myself, too tan from being fake baked in January, or have enough cottage cheese on them to make salad bar complete- so that you can look at them when I walk up and down the stairs in my high heels.

I wear high heels because I have to announce my coming and going and warn the paparazzi and fat girls to move out of the way. I also wear them to lift my ass so I can be 'bootylicious' like Beyonce. High heels make me feel important. Fat girls can't wear high heels, so I wear them to let the blind students know that I am not fat and an important person.

I have a tit job and botox, but I am constantly outside by the bike racks smoking cigarettes. This is called self-improvement. I smoke so I don't get hungry. I then lose weight and my fake tits look bigger. Now I just need a face lift because the years of tobacco abuse have likened my face to an old catcher's mitt. I have my priorities straight, so don't question them.

In the end, I am only really here to catch a good dickin', or hot beef injection. You see, my biological destiny is to whelp out a few puppies and use them as excuses as to why I never made it in the legal world. The law world is a man's world, and I will continue to remind people in class discussions that women make 75 cents on the dollar that a man makes, even though the areas of law I am concentrated in (Family, Pro Bono) are the lowest paying. And I will leave the workforce to shit out a few kids, feel my calling as a mother, stay out of work for 5 years, and then expect to come back as if I had never left (especially after my husband is sick of not getting blow jobs and trades me in for a newer and less-broken model). I figure that any guy that throws me a dick here will at least be on the hook for child support and will make enough money, by default, to pay me a modest monthly salary for purposely skipping my birth control the night he spent 200 bucks on me at the bar and then took me home. But I got Cosmos out of it, and Miranda and Charlotte love their Cosmos while out on socialite scene of 13th Ave.

My favorite hobby is shopping and cars should stop for me when I run out into traffic, with my Ipod on, during rush hour. What would your vagina say if it could talk?

Oh, bonus fact! That last bit refers to a female law school student who had been killed by a car during her morning jog. Stay classy, Straight!

So anyway, I was thinking, wow, this story sure seems like an apt metaphor for corporate America, yeah? But it turns out he was known for being pretty honest in the business community.

"He would give you the good news along with the bad news," Carroll said. "If he said something, you could really hang your hat on it."

So yeah. Forget all this. David Colby is just an apt metaphor for all other douchebags. Also: an insurance company executive. I think that's pretty much it.

Ex-CEO Accused Of Womanizing [AP]

CORRECTION: Due to a synapse fart I mis-identified Mike as "Ed" Koralchyk. Someone with a name sounding like that used to be the lead singer of some bad that was on the radio in the nineties. MY BAD AS USUAL SHOOT ME NOW ETC. ETC.

Here's Mike at a commercial shoot with an overweight actress, displaying trademark maturity/expansive vocabulary.

He was giddy at the thought of slamming a pie into her face.

"Leave the pie out for now, Michael. I know you're dying," the director called, sensing the uneasiness swell. "God, we're so far off the script right now."

Karolchyk silently scanned the faces looking back at him. He had paid these people, and dammit, they were going to listen to him.

"I want to push her into the couch."

"Mike, if you push her, that's going to cross the line."

"But that's what I want to do."

This was the second of three spots, and he wanted it to be his masterpiece. The actress, Sophia, was to sit on the couch, eating the pie and lamenting that only drunk men would sleep with her. She had a beer-stocked refrigerator to prove it. Karolchyk was to jump out of the fridge looking tough and goofy, call Sophia fat, and slam the round pie into her round face. He had only two requirements for the commercial: Filming had to be quick, and the finished product needed to be "evil as shit." He stood under the hot lights, liquefied whipped cream running down his broad forearm, dripping onto his size 13 feet.

"Can I pour a beer over her head?"

"It'll be considered insulting. Remember, she's going to get hit with the pie."

Daylight was fading in the loft. Karolchyk was getting restless.

"I just want to slam this fucking pie into her head!"

Here's Koralchyk degrading women. The women don't seem to mind!

"How many of you have gone to college?" he asked. Several hands shot in the air. "Wow," he said in mock surprise, "educated girls, fantastic. So, since you're in school you know some things. Things like how to get to the next level." He paced in front the room. "San Diego and Arizona, the girls are on fire. They all have big boobs already. They already have big lips. Nice loooong legs that go on all day. You can go to a restaurant and get six chicks like that," he said. "Now you guys, if you work hard enough, you can be the Midwest Queen." He paused for effect. "You all are hot as shit for Denver. But that's like saying you're hot as shit for South Dakota." The women nodded in agreement.

But then they go home and feel only shame.

During one filming at his Cherry Creek gym, Karolchyk harangued about a dozen women, all of them in their early 20s, some with children, most with stories of drunken sexual escapades. They were easy targets, vulnerable to his criticism. Their breasts were too small, he told them. Their asses were too big. He wanted them to kiss each other and dance nude in his hot tub. One woman, a tiny, 20-year-old wannabe model named Samantha, told him her C-cup breasts "were a good size" and said she kept fit by jogging regularly. Karolchyk seized the opportunity, asking her to turn slowly, take off her top, and jog in a circle. She complied with each request, kicking her legs like a horse, her breasts flipping while a half-dozen cameras preserved the moment. "Niiiice," Karolchyk said.

A few days later I called her.

"I told my boyfriend what I did, and he said it didn't sound like me," Samantha said. "My mom would be disappointed." She said she found herself getting embarrassed for the other women at the audition. "I thought, 'That poor girl,' but that's probably what the other girls were thinking about me. I mean, I'm so not even like that."

She went quiet for a few seconds before whispering, "That's not who I am. I'm disappointed in myself."

Here's where the author comes to the disturbing realization that the women Koralchyk is demeaning include his WIFE

He made it seem like he was acting in my best interests. But he was simply trying to control me, and I had bought into it. My wife—seven months after giving birth to our second child, and initially repulsed by my Karolchyk stories—called me one morning, knowing I was at the gym. She wanted me to get tips from him about how to lose another 10 pounds of baby weight. "Tell her to stop eating for two," Karolchyk deadpanned.

Disgusted, she hung up.

Within two months she'd dropped 15 pounds.

And here's the part you're not sure is more depressing for society or for the poor shrink who is going to have to listen to this for the next twelve years.

He sees himself as a "truth-teller," a modern-day Holden Caulfield, lashing out against the "phonies" who don't accept his conviction that, deep down, everyone aspires to be sexy. "Caulfield was the only person willing to point out the fakeness around him," he says of The Catcher in the Rye protagonist. "He was a rebel, just like me. He was misunderstood, just like me."

This Man Thinks You're Fat [5280]