For the women out there, this column will hardly be shocking. For the guys in the audience – well frankly, I suggest you stop reading now; it only goes downhill from here. This column addresses what I now call the “Lulu Problem,” and it is a problem that each and every one of you bastards will have in about 3 minutes.
On New Year’s Eve, some buddies and I visited a friend in New York. As we were pre-gaming in his apartment, we started talking about Tinder, Hot or Not and other techanisms that we men use to boost our self-confidence, but never get laid with. At this point in the conversation, Alpha male friend asks, “Have you guys ever heard of Lulu?” No, the other four hadn’t. It was at this juncture that Alpha male friend starts freaking out and dancing around like the ever-humble Steve Smith after crossing the goal line. He then proceeded to tell us about Lulu.
Lulu is an app for girls. Only girls. When you login for the first time, the app requires you to do so using Facebook. This way, Lulu knows if you are male or female. Based upon this information, you are directed to the male side of the site, the first screen you see being your Facebook profile picture with a few numbers underneath it, indicating how many girls have viewed your profile. Now comes the messed-up part: you can’t even see your own page. You see, gents, Lulu is a site where, even if you have not created your own account, women can create one for you, and subsequently post things ABOUT YOU. That’s right, boys. Remember that girl whose computer you pissed on at 3am, then you fell over and cut your head open on her desk when you were rushing out in embarrassment AND you left your shoes in her room? Yep, she posted the whole thing on Lulu. That one chick who you really liked but you pissed her sheets and night-farted in her bed on the second go-round? Yeah, you didn’t realize how truly eloquent English majors really are until you read the detailed account of that liaison.
But we haven’t even gotten to the worst part yet, fellas! The girls rate you as a human being on a scale of 1-10, and their individual rankings average out to your final score. Now I know this sounds hypocritical given that we use the same ranking system, so hear me out. We have a time-tested methodology. We sit on couches in groups ranging from 3-10 guys, drink and have elevated, rational discourse regarding the merits, or lack thereof, of a given lady. We comprise our own jury; we are one collective judge. Fairness reigns, and only after putting a subject through this equitable process is a number ascribed to her state of existence. Lulu allows for a swift click, often driven by emotion, with no checks and balances. Gentlemen, this is anarchy, and I won’t stand for it.
The last feature of Lulu is that it allows your past conquests to use hashtags to describe you and your positive or negative qualities. Among the ranks of these quips are #nostyle, #mammasboy, #boyfriendmaterial, #goodfriend, along with many others, the most disconcerting of which will most certainly address your most vulnerable spots. Oh, you don’t have any? You will soon, my friend. I do, and here’s why:
After finding out about Lulu and what is out there floating around us on the internet, the aforementioned group of friends decided that we must find out what lurks behind the curtain. So like any rational body would do in this situation, we had our female friends go on and take screenshots of all of our profiles and text them to us. A few found out that they had yet to be review, which after reading some of the other group members’ profiles turned out to be a blessing. The ones who had a nice little Lulu track record? Well, I’ll let you do your own market research. Hopefully you poor sons of Adam haven’t done too much wrong by the opposite sex. And if you’re not sure, then you’ll soon find out. So text your respective Liz Lemons and get after it. Because remember: “Information is the most valuable commodity I know of.” Next time you hit the bar for happy hour, you’ll want it to be a level playing field. Just try not to think about why that hard 7 you just met came back to the table for her phone before she hit the bathroom.