LA Comedy Writer

The lengths men go through to impress a girl are boundless. During my rapscallion days, there was no lie too big to tell someone to get into her knickers. I had learned early on that women have very few requirements for hopping into bed with a guy.

1. Is he employed?

2. How much does he make?

3. Is he willing to spend the majority of that money on ME?

4. In lieu of numbers 1-3, does he have power?

5. Lastly, is he good looking, and if so, is his brain not a solid slab of marble.

The funny thing about the money and/or power requirements, is that they don’t actually have to be proven. For instance, if you meet a girl in a bar and you tell her you’re a brain surgeon, and the chief of staff, normally you won’t have to open someone up to remove a tumor right on the bar. It does help to have a little bit of raw hamburger on your forearm, which you can casually flick off and explain away as brain matter.

The other part of money is the appearance. And appearance can be something as easy as driving a nice car. When I first had money, but before I could spend it on the Hummer I picked up later, I had a first date coming up with a gorgeous woman. I also had a friend who drove a nice BMW X5, compared to my sporty little three-year old convertible. The friend was going out of town for an extended period, so I asked if I could use her car, and she agreed. The plan was to impress the date initially with the car, then my devilishly sharp wit, then once she stopped holding her ribs with laughter and grasped the arm rests of rich Corinthian leather, and finally peered at my face, it would be too late. She’d be in my web of amor.

I picked her up, and as we were driving to a very nice restaurant, the girl remarked at how nice the ride was. But, like the pitcher who has a fastball getting banged all over the park, she was crafty enough to know when to throw a curve, and here it came. She didn’t care for the music that was playing on the radio, and asked me to change the station. Oh shit. I looked down at the dash, and to me, it resembled the controls on the Enterprise. There were buttons everywhere, and nothing said “on” or “off”. There were pictures, but they didn’t resemble a stereo. Keeping my wits about me, I reached down and just hit a button. The air conditioning revved up like a leaf blower. I hit another button, and the CD in the player popped out. I’m not exactly smart, but I am quick to recognize an opportunity. I told the girl to look through my CD’s and find something she liked. Whew! That was close!

We drove along a little further, listening to the Britney Spears CD she picked out, and all was well. That is, until the date pointed to a little ceramic elephant attached to the dash, and asked why I, a manly man, would have something so dainty in such an obvious place. I had narrowly escaped the first land mine, but foolishly thought that was all there was. This was now like when you’ve had some bad Thai food, and confidently exit the bathroom, then the “second wave” hits, and you make a mad dash back in.

Again, quick thinking was the rule of the day. Calmly, I explained that I had a dear, dear friend who had recently passed away from cancer. That cute little elephant was a gift she had bought me her last Christmas, so I wouldn’t forget her. I then explained that the friend was a little on the rotund side. I decided to go for the Best Horrible Person In A Dating Role award, and forced a single tear to roll down my cheek. A single tear! Do you know the discipline it takes to shed a single tear? The date teared up herself at my dedication to a beloved lost friend. She also appreciated that I was secure enough in my manhood to shed that lone drop of leftover saline from my contacts. And in case you were wondering, like the businessman in the massage parlor, holding a forty dollar tip, there was indeed, a happy ending.

It wasn’t long after though, that I did have to go out and buy the Hummer. I knew that the learning curve on foreign automobiles was too high, and it was just easier to have my own luxury penis with eighteen inch rims.

I’ve grown so tired of covering the news lately. I mean, how many ways can you call Rush Limbaugh a fucking idiot, and pray for whatever Supreme Being there is, to strike him down with a flesh-eating (or at least voice-eating) disease? Although I certainly wasn’t a fan of Bush II, I applaud him for standing up to Limbaugh, who has never let the facts get in the way of his “truth”. So today, I elect to write about a few things I’ve found humorous, both present and past.

I read recently that a new Sex And The City movie is due for release soon. Here’s my thoughts on SATC. I don’t mind that they basically bashed men for a number of years…a lot of what they said was true. No, what I object to, is how every foursome gaggle of geese who meet at a Starbucks now, claims that “we’re just like Sex And The City. Ooh, I’m just like Carrie, and you’re just like Miranda.” Ooh, and I’m gonna throw up my goddamed breakfast burrito! This is definitely a girl thing. You don’t see a bunch of guys spending a weekend in Vegas going, “Ooh, we’re just like Oceans Eleven. I’m George Clooney, I’m George!!”

Speaking of Starbucks, it’s where I like to start every day. I have a nice drink, and sit outside, watching the world go by. It often gives me material, as all you have to do, is…pay attention. Somebody will do something, and it will be entertaining enough to share with the whole world, and they’ll “get it”. Except for maybe Zimbabwe, or somewhere ravaged by drought. But they probably don’t follow me anyway. But I digress. This morning I happened to reflect back on a simpler time, my college days. In those days, a bunch of frat guys (go Delta Chi!) would all meet up at someone’s house for a party. For argument’s sake, let’s call him…Joel. Joel used to have this big black rubber dick, known as Big Blackie (we didn’t spend a lot of time on catchy names back then). B.B. was vein-ridden, and about eight inches long. Well, Joel used to love waiting until some unsuspecting chick was pretty drunk, and he’d wait for her to turn away from him during a conversation. At that point, Joel would take Big Blackie and dunk it in her cup of beer, then hold it right next to her cheek. He’d then tap the girl on the shoulder, and she’d turn right into it. Just to show you how easily frat guys are amused, that used to fracture my shit. One of these days I’ll have to ask Joel whatever happened to his esteemed penis of color.

And speaking of penises, one of the natural aggravations of getting older, is how often you’re horny during the day. There was a day when sex was all I thought about. If I was to compare it to a movie, it would be 9 1/2 Weeks. Of course, those were the days. Now, I guess the most apropos movie would be Gone In Sixty Seconds. Ahhh, youth. Lastly, the other thing I notice missing as I get older, is the stamina to work out. It wasn’t too many years ago that I used to work out for an hour a day, five or six days a week, plus I’d play in two softball leagues. Now, if I’m laying in bed and get a severe cramp (you know the ones that make you leap out of bed and hop around), I count that as cardio.