Monday, December 7, 2009

Happiness Is Never Taking A 4-Iron To The Head

A quick note, if I may, to supermodels: guys don’t get you, and by guys I mean all men, and by get I mean you don’t pay us any attention. You are out of our league. Even for the rich, famous and handsome, and especially for the rich, famous and doofy. So please understand that marrying us activates the “Kid In A Candy Shop” syndrome whereby men, particularly the rich doofy kind, realize wide-eyed that if they got one, they just might get another! (As opposed to “I got one, be happy and tithe.”) And if they don’t get caught, the “Hell Yeah!” syndrome kicks in whereby greedy doofs go for broke and try to snarf down as much super poon as possible. Unless you’re David Bowie (born with a mutated Cool factor) no man is equipped to handle waking up everyday and seeing Iman pause by floor-to-ceiling windows, the sun framing her tousled hair and caressing her through the gauzy haze of her unfastened linen wrap. As a man myself I’ll admit to the fantasy: supermodels get lonely too, and maybe—-just maybe—-all Naomi Campbell needs is a Hi from a sincere guy, a guy like me, to calm, settle and complete her.

Reality: no.

Would Tiger Woods have gotten his wife if he wasn’t “Tiger Woods”? Don’t be stupid. But because he is Tiger Woods and not “Tiger Woods” he cheated clumsily and stupidly. (Additional side note: there is no other way to cheat; you will get caught you ignint general sonavumbitch.) The kid in a candy store syndrome.

Supermodels: Marrying men does not lead to happiness. Out of what?—a quadrillion billion humans who have lived on this earth maybe a hundred men have been out of women’s league, any woman, whereas that number gets inverted as concerns women to men. Go Sapphic and save the hassle. There’s an island here in Detroit with sufficient acreage. Procreation is highly overrated, and I can start planting wheat now. I’m sensitive that way.

Don’t thank me.

The syndrome also applies to actresses, athletes, caterers, tricks, hoes, Avon representatives, groupies and best friends’ hot moms.

Ridiculously-gorgeous, it’s Belle Isle or me. I have studied under the tutelage of the Dalai Bowie (I know all the words to ‘Let’s Dance’ and have belted the song ‘John, I’m Only Dancing’ quite loudly on several occasions), therefore I am cool. You will never swing a golf club at my head. I’m prepared to calm, settle and complete you. I'll need up to 4 of you. It'll take about 3 to restrain the Wife.

Call me.

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