I’m sorry ladeez, but a few of you are going to be offended by the following.
But let me just state at the outset that the original inspiration wasn’t a female, but Wingy, i.e. my Wingman (2007-8).
Wingy and I are in Toronto, sampling the musical offerings at Canadian Music Week, a four-day conference. Today we finally left the hotel (the Fairmont Big Fat Royal York) and went to the Richtree Market, a sort-of upscale food court where you’re charged a $2 gratuity even though you get dick-all for service. (Notice to Toronto tourists: stay away from this over-priced clip-joint.)
Anyway, that’s beside the point, more or less.
We’d just finished our omelettes, and I’d gone into the Market and come back with a plate of fruit.
Wingy: “I should get some fruit. How much was that? Do they have yogurt? Maybe I won’t get any fruit, I’m kind of full. But I can eat it in the room. Okay, I will get some fruit.”
Now, how much of that is of any concern to anyone, even me, his brunch companion? That’s right, dear reader, none. Zero. He may as well be talking to himself.
And then I realized, hey, he’s just like a lot of women I’ve dated. Not all of them, mind you. But (bear with me) it seems to me women have a license to say just about anything, and because guys are guys, and horny, we’ll just nod our heads and treat whatever is said as though it has some bearing on reality.
But really, do any of the following statements have any influence on the future of the planet: “I’m cold.” “I’m hot.” “I’m hungry.” “I’m full.” “I’m sort of hungry, but not really.”
No, they do not. Yet, we guys just nod our heads, and act concerned, because listening to this verbal diarrhea is part of the job of being a good boyfriend/husband/concubine.
Oh, and by the way? Fucking Wingy actually “won” a free medium-size fruit plate when he went through the checkout.
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