Wednesday, August 30, 2006

Hey, St. Peter, Before You Ring That Bell

A friend of mine speculates on Friday nights with St. Peter and God. Not to suppose blasphemy or imply that he might have a more direct connection than others, but he wonders if, after a long hard week seeing to the needs and care of immortal souls that didn’t come with exact change, St. Peter and the Lord don’t kick back and play a few innocent games with the flock. Sort of like cribbage with plague-like consequences.

He (my buddy Dave, not God, although the two have never been seen together) wonders if they (God this time, and St. Peter) don’t play a few innocent games with human emotion between the sexes. Just for fun, just to get that form letter from Satan demanding off street parking out of their mind for a few hours.

Dave’s speculation goes sort of like this: A single soul gets picked out here on the mortal coil and then depending on the degree of singleness, companionship is either thrown their way or kept temptingly just out of reach.

Case in point: We’ve all been single at some time or another. I was until rather recently, a single guy looking for a woman with whom to spend some time with. Ok, there were other requirements but since I’ve invoked divine beings in the first sentence, I need to carry through the theme. It’s a writer thing. Just trust me on this.

So, newly single, I tried a lot of logical venues within which to meet women. How many worked? None. Not a single, well intentioned without being obvious one of them. Not one that said “Hi I’m alone but the farthest thing from desperate you can imagine.” I tried book clubs and realized it had been too long since I’ve had an eye exam. I tried the gym but got pulled out from under too heavy barbells by other men once too often to have that fly. I went to upscale grocery stores and became quite good at advising octogenarians as to the digestibility of certain foodstuffs.

But single women? Not a chance. I could chat up anyone in the express lane and get little more than a sideways glance and “could you hand me the order separator, please?”

Ok, so things have changed and I’m spending days with Thumper who is wonderful in every way and then some. Things are good. I’m happy, she’s happy, we’re all happy and the planets should be in perfect alignment. Except for God sinking earth into the side pocket by careening off of Venus and not scratching on Mars. Yes, its Friday night in heaven and why don’t we pile a few lucky gals Bunny’s way. Just to see what happens. A few chuckles while we wait for the keg to be tapped.

They are NOT coming out of the woodwork but they are slipping out of the wainscoating. It’s Friday night and I’m in line at the upscale grocery place and there’s a lovely blonde lady just ahead of me. I’m about to hand her the order separator just out of habit when she strikes up a suggestive conversation with me that finishes as I’m followed out to the parking lot.

Then there are the emails from the pretty young technicians who want to know how your network connections are and has your server inadvertently gone down lately.

Uh.

No.

Thanks for asking.

No, I was outside in the heat. I’m not usually this red.

A couple of years ago there was a company that touted something called “Safety Man” in airline onboard catalogs that you were forced to page through when you realized you didn’t bring a book for the flight to Milwaukee. “Safety Man” was an inflatable mannequin (not going there) who had about 5 days growth of beard on “him”, wore dark mirrored shades and sat next to you in a car as you commuted into work. The idea was to ward off purse snatchers, car jackers, Amway reps and whomever else might impede on your safety if you were a young woman.

Now most seasoned criminals saw right through “Safety Man” and begin to wonder out loud if the more expensive models came with self wetting devices in case of attack. Lets face it, a mirror shade, unshaven white guy might send them packing on “Simon and Simon” but this is the real world kids.

But maybe “Safety Man” was ahead of his time and the time has come for the true test of mannequin discouragement. It is in this spirit that I propose “Commitment Chick”.

Same idea but with a few twists. An inflatable (once again, we’re not going there) female mannequin of any ethnic origin designed to compliment the security of the single traveler. She is equipped with a pleasant face and accepting body language. However, the unit springs into action when the purchaser is set upon in any social venue. “Commitment Chick’s” eyes are designed to narrow and track any advancing movement. Her throat automatically clears from several hundred feet away. The male purchaser of “Commitment Chick” can then use the repulsing feature of the doll to send off an advancing female or relegate “Commitment Chick” to cousin or sister status if appropriate.

Now some of us think that the male of the species gives off contentment pheromones when they are in a serious relationship. These are sensed by females in the vicinity and the male is relegated immediately to “NSM” status. That is an acronym for “Nice Safe Man” and is generally used around gay guys. Truth be known, and I can say this, I’m a guy, there’s no such thing as a contentment pheromone nor is there any such thing as a Nice Safe Guy, excepting gay guys of course. We are always on the prowl. The pheromone we give off is one of fear of getting caught. That’s what you’re reacting to.

Unless you believe, as Dave does, that St. Peter is kicking back for a little Friday night fun at your expense and has parked that cute blonde in front of you in line and has tucked her Lexus just one row over from your car just to see what you’ll do.

Thanks Pete, where the hell were you all last winter?

Never mind. I’ll be home in twenty minutes, hon.

Bunny on.

1 Comments:

Blogger Ericka said...

silly bunny - of course they toy with us. why do you think we're here??

and really, it's not pheromones. it's fabric softener. ever heard andy rooney's bit on it? he's right.

10:55 AM  

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