Anyway, so here I sit at Grandma Slump's, a confirmed bachelor, more a consequence of never actually getting out there in the dating pool. I might have to buy myself a really good suit one of these days -- yeah, that's what I'll do. Then I'll get some gel for my hair, what's left of it, a few wisps left here and there. And maybe I could make myself presentable.
I used to think maybe I had something to offer. But you know the old old story. I was shy. I figured Grandma and Grandpa needed help around the property here. Grandpa never saw any reason for me to be "cattin' around." But he's been gone for years and I guess I let some of his stick in the mud rules keep me down.
I saw an article, though, the other day, that said 25% of adults in New York have herpes -- I'm not sure if that meant genital herpes, the kind they advertise on TV for or not. They have these two elfin romantics riding bikes on the commercial. And one of them -- the infected one -- has some positive things to say about her outbreaks and the period of time between them. I'm thinking at first, say no more, you're out of here, true love or not. Send you to a herpes island and let people air drop you supplies. But if 25% of an entire city is in the same boat, we'll either need a bigger island, or we'll have to somehow coexist. That takes away some of your desire, though, right there.
But I know there's a lot of people "gettin' lucky" out there, whether they have a nice suit and hair gel or not. They knock back a few drinks, that reduces their inhibitions, eye contact comes next, there's some barely perceptible head feints toward the door, then they stagger to the backseat of their car, and that's it. Exchange names, health records, and you got it.
Some of these girls kissing girls, though, is almost too much. You figure, hey girls, get a guy and leave the girls to us men. At least it'd expand our odds a bit if the girls weren't horning in on our territory. But who am I trying to kid? My odds aren't that great. Like tonight. Grandma's going to be snoring in about an hour, I'll be playing solitaire or shelling hickory nuts, maybe checking out the Keith Olbermann program. It's Friday night and that's my idea of action -- pathetic.
Did you happen to see the story about the 17 girls at a high school who had a pregnancy pact? They're just out getting pregnant, just to do it. Grandpa always called that "sleeping with a bull" -- seriously. And one of the guys was a homeless guy. Now he might end up a registered sex offender since the girls were underage. And if you have to register your address and you're homeless -- well, you can see the trouble. But the first part actually gives me hope -- the pact. Maybe there's some more middle aged gals out there making pacts. If I heard of any kind of pact I could show up outside their headquarters. I've got a big bouquet of flowers. I've got my hair slicked over my bald spot. I've got my new suit on. I've got a sign that says something suggestive, you know, like "Hiya, girls. Wink wink. I'm desperate, let me in."
It's not my purpose to rag on myself and my prospects, but they're getting bleak. I had an embarrassing experience, I suppose I could say it. It was all in good fun. One of my good friends from high school -- we were having the high school reunion -- 30th -- and he wanted to go out with me. So we went to a restaurant, a kind of nice one over by the college. We were standing there waiting for a table because it was crowded. And right here, real close right there, there was a table with about 14 college girls -- like drill team girls -- around it. Nothing but 14 girls together! And my old friend goes, "What's this? A meeting of your ex-girlfriends getting together to talk over old times?" It was something like that he said. I gave a fake chuckle, but the thought kept going through my mind the whole night, even later through the night at home. 14 ex-girlfriends talking over old times! It's bizarre, but definitely something to think about!
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