Glamour Finally Dumps Mike Cherico. Can We Learn From This?

Illustration for article titled iGlamour/i Finally Dumps Mike Cherico. Can We Learn From This?

So we did it. Womanity put an abrupt end to the dating blogging career of Glamour's Mike Cherico. He is not the first Glamour contributor Jezebel has inadvertently helped to get canned. But he is far and away the worst. And I do not mean the "worst Glamour contributor Jezebel has inadvertently helped to get canned" or even the "worst Glamour contributor." Just the worst. We don't take pleasure in fucking people's careers publicly, and now is no exception. But Mike Cherico is an idiotic, deluded pathologically promiscuous coward with an identity composed of little more than decent looks and an incomprehensibly large well of self-esteem and now is the time for anyone who has enabled anyone even remotely like him to look deep within yourselves and ask how the fuck you didn't castrate him first. Men like Ben Karlin could not exist without men like Mike Cherico. To recap:

Mike drinks while driving. He lies frequently and about everything. He has almost certainly never made a girl come. He is thoroughly shameless and unabashed about all these qualities, and on top of that, clearly dumb. And for some reason girls date him anyway. For some reason Alyssa Shelasky, Cherico's Columbia-educated (if not, uh, always particularly Columbia educated-seeming) dating blogging predecessor on the Glamour website, dated him anyway, then nearly lived with him, then recommended him to write a dating blog. And it took more than six months to produce the woman who would finally put an end to his tenure, simply by blogging the truth about dating Cherico:

I thought it was just a first time thing but the morning after we slept together, we had sex again, and I went down on him and let him finish in in my mouth. I was literally sitting there with the taste of him still in my throat when he stood up to take a shower. He had now had two orgasms to my zero, so I asked if he might orally reciprocate. He, with no hesitation or hint of sarcasm, proclaimed "I don't know you that well!" and turned on the faucet.


And there are 3190 more grim words where that came from! Read them, and promise yourself to never again put yourself in the situation where you might blog them yourselves.

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A Small Turnip

I hate human beings. I just fucking hate them. I can't decide whether I hate this douchebag more than I hate Miss Smarty Shoes for being his lapdog for so long.

Jesus. I want to shake her and ask where she left her self-respect. Because if she were my friend, I like to think that we'd have had a conversation about liking yourself enough not to be some narcissistic dickwad's chew toy.

Stupid, enraging "writers" who say shit like "It's not personal, it's just art." Gah. I need to go lie down in a darkened room for a few minutes. This just hit a little close to home.

Deep breaths. Hot sweet tea. A babbling brook. Om mani padme hum. Prayer flags flapping in the Himalayan sunshine. A Japanese rock garden.

Fuck, I'm still pissed off.