How Women Should Act on a Date, According to the Year 1938


So this entire post is comprised of dating advice from a 1938 PSA on how women should act on a date that has been floating around the Internet today and is probably well worth your time if you ever want to find a husband, ladies. Ok, that’s a lie, but laughing at the sexism of yesteryear is always a blast so let’s begin…

Note: I’ll assume you all have good enough eyes or glasses to read the captions on the photos because I just don’t have the energy to transcribe them. 


Burt has sexy hair. Far sexier than your date, Keith. But be that as it may, keep your fucking paws out of Burt’s hair during dinner.



This PSA clearly took place during a time before National Geographic hit the scene and made saggy, elf-shoe tits all the rage with men. (Note to self: check the Internet later to see if “NatGeo Tits” is its own porn fetish category. If no, create it. Then $$$$$.)



Small talk while dancing does nothing for the boner he’s created through grinding on your thigh. Failure to recognize that is reckless.



Some things transcend time. This no-talking-about-your-stupid-clothes advice is one of those things.



Knowing that you weren’t born with fire-red lips and unblemished skin will only ruin his day. You don’t want to ruin his day, do you?



AH GEEZE, YOU’VE RUINED HIS DAY. The look on his face says: “All I said was you look stupid in that hat. If you didn’t want me to say that, you shouldn’t have worn a stupid hat.”



Yes, ladies. This is crucial information. After he makes you cry over your idiotic hat, it’s never a good idea to get revenge by finger fucking his ear. That kind of behavior doesn’t land a guy like Keith here as your husband.



My GOD, Keith is stewing over her familiarity with this headwaiter.



That’s the most, “I’m this close to homicide” face I’ve ever seen.



Yes, never, EVER look bored even if you are. After all, if this man wants to take you as a wife it doesn’t matter how you unenthused you are by him. His mere presence is a privilege and the fact that he’s stuck around — after you felt-up Burt’s head, wore a stupid hat, talked about your clothes, ruined his dance boner, sullied his favorite handkerchief, and lived through you finger blasting his ear — is nothing short of a goddamn miracle.

Ah, this was fun. Pointless as all hell, but fun nonetheless.

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