When I was a child with skid marks in my drawers, my mother used to tell me Lava soap was good for taking out deep stains.
That’s what she said.
She didn’t tell me it eradicates all the texture from your skin. Why, just this Saturday I used Lava soap, because I like to party. One hand washing and my weekend was officially ape shiznit.
Until I left for work 15 minutes later, when I flicked my cigarette and watched helplessly as it slid off my fingers, out of my car and into oncoming traffic.
My hands were as slick as a greased watermelon on a slip-N-slide. Mom never said anything about that.
She has suggested that I quit smoking, because she doesn’t want me to die before her. That’s sweet, but if I want to be a smooth-skinned, texture-less corpse when I choke out my last breath at 40, that’s my problem. Somehow, she’ll manage.
Speaking of women giving me mixed messages, it’s almost Oct. 31st and nothing says Halloween like women in skanky costumes. It’s a good thing. The more women dress in “naughty nurse” outfits, the more we forget America’s going into the economic crapper.
So hop to it, ladies. Your nation is depending on you. And if you’re not up to being a randy RN, I’ve got your plan B: sexy undertaker. It’s better than you think.
Women often justify their suggestive costumes by saying everyone else is doing it. Good for them. Peer pressure is wonderful.
I say, put on that satin and lace, ladies, and make those breasts poke out like torpedoes, because there’s one holiday where you can justify looking slutty for artistic purposes, and this is it.
Our national pride is at stake here.
Speaking of sluts on Halloween, I had a dream about Elvira recently. Not for the obvious reasons, wink wink. No, I’m a fan of outrageously disproportionate and freakish-looking people. The more missing limbs, the better. For example, a man with one arm is nice; a human torso with fingers for a face is better. But give me an aging “Mistress of the Night” with Joan Jett hair and boulders for bosoms, and I’m in Heaven.
So in my dream, I knock on Elvira’s door—we’re practically neighbors—looking for some tricks or treats, and she says, “I’m not showing you my breasts.”
That’s what she said. I didn’t even specify treat, but she knew.
And that’s all Elvira’s known for. Her fun bags. It’s like Schwarzenegger deciding he doesn’t want to butcher the English language or Bono telling all the starving children to cannibalize each other. When these things happen, everyone suffers.
Later in my dream, the Wolf-lady and Mrs. Dracula also rejected my treat requests. Go figure.
Women, even the ones who don’t have fur or fangs, are very interesting creatures. Don’t mock, but I used Craigslist for the first time last week. It’s because I met an amazing, cute, and totally intoxicated girl while I was bartending. Well, she wasn’t drunk at first. We hit it off, but since she had to be carried out of the joint, I never got her name.
So I went on the “missed connections” section and posted a message looking for this cute, utterly smashed girl. Based on Craigslist’s shady reputation, I realize I’m now one step away from being a rapist, but whatever.
I’m actually a romantic, or at least I was, until I read some other postings, like: “I saw you two times today, first at the grocery store, then at the bank. I was too shy to approach you because I didn’t want you to think I was a stalker, but you were wearing an orange skirt, you had a nice butt, and I was hiding behind the fixed-rate loans sign.”
That’s icky. The whole site is icky. And the best part is, I’m now one of them.
Anyway, a woman quickly responded to my posting, and I flipped my wig. My chance encounter: drunk and puke-stained, every man’s dream; she’d remembered me!
The message said, simply, “Hey I don’t mean to come off sounding spammy, but Craigslist is kinda crazy in terms of finding lady friends. Have you seen…” followed by a link. I felt like Alice in Wonderland, ready to fall down the booty rabbit-hole.
I followed the link, my heart a-flutter, and hit a dead end. Or as most people call it, an online dating site. I retreated to my e-mail in disgust, and discovered the mystery woman had left another message: “I love you.”
Actually, that’s not what she said.
Online dating is like a convention for lonely hearts with ADD. Not that I’m overly familiar with it, mind you. A few dozen profile views of salty single mothers who hate the world is enough to last a lifetime. But the gist I get from these human scab wounds is, “I’m online, you’re online, this communication is instantaneous, and I need money for stewed apricots … let’s take it slow.”
No, that’s never what desperate single mother #876 says.
OK, OK … there’s thousands of attractive, desirable people on online dating sites, I’m sure—no, millions. I’ve heard the rumors. I’ve witnessed a couple success stories myself. But I’m not wallowing in those murky waters long enough to find out.
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