he's done it again

G.: So here’s something I don’t understand.

J.: What’s that.

G.: Singlehood.

J.: Well, for one, don’t call it singlehood.

G.: Bachelorhood?

J.: Don’t name it. It’s your life, not a condition.

G.: Well, what I don’t understand is why the FUCK nobody will sleep with me.

J.: That, on the other hand, is a condition.

G.: Ass.

J.: You’re presuming you’re worth sleeping with, and that — at least I assume — women recognize that in the very short periods of time you are actually with them before you destroy their perceptions of you as a nice guy.

G.: Seriously. Ass.

J.: What’s the problem.

G.: The other night I take out this chick. Starletta.

J.: Problem number one has just revealed itself. But go on.

G.: Ass. But anyway she comes over and we have a drink, okay.

J.: Like a drink drink?

G.: Like an alcoholic beverage.

J.: Wine?

G.: Captain.

J.: Probably problem number two.

G.: What’s wrong with Captain?

J.: Problem number three. Continue.

G.: We go to a movie.

J.: Movie?

G.: The Strangers.

J.: Problem four.

G.: I’m tallying these. You’re going to have to explain them afterward.

J.: Nah, I’m not going to do that.

G.: Because you’re an ass?

J.: Because I am.

G.: We have dinner.

J.: Time?

G.: Uh. Nine-thirty or something.

J.: Uh huh. That’s another one.

G.: Nothing wrong with a late dinner.

J.: Except girls like to complain about bloat and stuff. And that’s problem six. Improper digestive time is a dealbreaker.

G.: Shit.

J.: Go on.

G.: We have drinks.

J.: Wine this time?

G.: Captain.

J.: You’re at a bar.

G.: Yeah.

J.: Where they have classier beverages than you keep around your casa.

G.: Yeah. You know, ‘casa’ always makes me think of Cassavetes. Mi Cassavetes, su Cassavetes.

J.: Try not to tell Starletta that joke, okay.

G.: Why, it’s a good one.

J.: It isn’t, for one. But Starletta won’t get that one.

G.: Mi Casablan–

J.: Stop it. Now continue.

G.: I drive her back to her place.

J.: Her car is at your place, though. At least, I’m assuming you didn’t pick her up at her place, go back to your place, and then go out.

G.: Her car is at my place.

J.: So your plan is what, exactly.

G.: Sleep over, go home.

J.: And her car?

G.: Shit.

J.: I think we’re up to like problem sixteen or something.

G.: But I’m reasonably good looking. And a conversationalist whose topicalities are boundless.

J.: Except when you’re constructing poor sentences that Starletta wouldn’t understand even if you built them soundly.

G.: Dude. She had tits.

J.: More than two?

G.: I –

J.: Step one: Wine. Step two: Your couch.

G.: Sounding good…

J.: Step three: Spend the night playing Xbox Live.

G.: I don’t get it.

J.: You’re about as likely to be the first man to get laid via online gaming as you are to get some after your date.

G.: You’re saying I know nothing about women, and I should improve, and think about them with each minor event I plan.

J.: Sure, that’s a start.

G.: Can you really get laid on Xbox Live?

J.: Yes.

G.: You’re lying to me right now.

J.: I really am.

G.:

J.: You can call me an ass again if you want.

G.: That’s okay.

J.: Well, that’s progre–

G.: Ass.

-- deeply shallow