Women, the proof is in. Guys are descended from dogs. Darwin was
wrong. The evidence is overwhelming and irrefutable. Y'see, being as
there is A) every indication that this, and not that old ape story, is
true, and being as B) it's what women have suspected for a long time, and
C) I'm a guy and well qualified by my checkered credentials to put forth
this hypothesis. It's a theory that I have formulated while ruminating
about the aftermath of divorce. Guys are dogs in the pet shop window, and
there's a big fire sale on 'em right now.
Not that interpersonal love relationships with guys aren't enough of a
roasting, burning, blistering hell and the emotional equivalent of the
Dresden firebombing to begin with. Let me just throw this sheaf on the
First point of proof: I was married. Not that I'm down on that
particular institution, but it's by far the best cure for love that I can
think of. Four years minus a year and a half of separation minus eight
months of forced celibacy minus twenty four thousand hours screaming about
the toilet ring, add it all up and it spells L-U-V! Tyson never got it so
good from Douglas. Looking back I feel like I must have been saying,
"yeah, go ahead, thumb screws are nice. Bamboo under the fingernails, oh
you shouldn't have! Hunny punkin sweety!"
It's way too easy to get married nowadays anyway. I personally got
married at Albertson's Instant (as in "just add water") Wedding Chapel at
the corner of Wilshire and La Brea in Los Angeles. Big plaster wedding
cake, contact paper stained glass, the whole bit. Spared no expense. We
went on the Newlywed Game after that - and won - another proof positive
that the marriage was doomed from the start. The state should have a
mandatory requirement that prenuptophytes have to give away half of their
belongings to someone they hate before they get married. That'll make 'em
think twice about it.
Now before I come off sounding a little too bitter, there is a good
side to all of this. Now that I'm a bachelor on the Uno Mas Tour, I know
what the other option is. I can make educated decisions based on a
realistic desire whether I do or do not want to be emotionally pummeled.
The only thing better than being a bachelor once is being a bachelor
I've found that there are also a lot of preconceived notions about us
guys who qualify to put the big D before our descriptions in the
personals. F'rinstance, the idea that all divorcees are jaded sex
maniacs. Patently not true. Marriages just don't go bad overnight. A
divorce is not made up of tow healthy, well-balanced individuals who are
having great conversation and great sex and enriching each other's lives
until one day it just snaps. Nay, divorces are made up of two
serial-killer wannabes living under the same roof whose neuroses are
diametrically opposed. They claw at each other like Tasmanian devils in a
blender until one or both of them gets tired of it and they bail. After
months, maybe years of deprivation from things like talk, support, sex and
food, they come flying out of there with a healthy appetite. That's all
it is. All I wanted immediately upon being divorced was to be in the
company of a female and do something innocuous like talk. God, how the
single waste that precious commodity. Join a monastic order and take a
vow of silence or spend countless nights with someone seething under the
covers mere inches away from you and even the most senseless prattle will
be like music to your ears. Trust me on this.
The second thing that the freshly emancipated want to do is get laid.
Gotta be frank with you on this one. It's partly a matter of wanting to
reinforce one's desirability after being so undesirable for so long, and
it's partly a matter of just wantin' to do that skin thang. Aah, to be
buck naked with an undiscovered human being! It's like that which has
been denied to you for so long is now yours! Revel in it! Consort
deliciously, for the other option is to back to the Land of Marriage where
Mister Wiggly gets a steady diet of bread and water. I asked a friend if
she felt the same way after being divorced. She confessed to having
fantasies about hiking up her skirt, jumping up on the bar and screaming
"LINE 'EM UP!" But hey, it's normal. Let he or she or it who is without
sex cast the first stone.
Okay, so the bad side of being divorced is that it eventually leads to
dating, and dating of course is the deepest pit in hell. I swear to God
it was invented by Goerring, Goebbels and Ilsa Koch and they're all down
there yukking it up in the brimstone right now. Think about it: Hitler
was on a date when he got blown up, and I bet you any money he set the
fuse himself. ADOLPH: "So vot do you vont to do?" EVA: "I don't care.
Anything you vont to do". K-BOOM! Dates can be broken down as hours of
insipid chatter about siblings, movies and previous dating disasters
followed by end of the evening angst or strange couplings or both. Repeat
when necessary, or until you begin to bite yourself. Insert your own
dating hell scenario here.
I spend a lot of first dates wishing I were a lab animal instead.
Whattayawannado? Ennythingyouwannado. My God! I must be dating
myself! Well, I want to smear myself in coal tar and shout obscenities at
strangers from the top of the old gas works like I'm the devil himself,
how about you? I want to get convicted of a felony and sent up the river
this evening because I've always been intrigued by prison movies, how
about you? It doesn't take me telling you that there's nothing worse than
a bad date except maybe a quadruple wisdom tooth extraction without
anesthesia. On the other hand, there's nothing better than a roll in the
hay except maybe a brand-spankin' new Toyota truck. I ain't got no Toyota
truck, and the Catch-22 is that there's no way to get to the truck dealer
except by dating. Go on. Walk through the coals.
I tried to circumvent the circumstances of dating by only going out
with women who were married or had boyfriends. The logic was: if they're
already attached and if it's not to you and thereby there is no danger of
attachment ergo it's not a date. It's just good old fashioned usury.
Call the Happy Homewrecker. The major drawback is that boyfriends and
husbands have a tendency to sniff out bird-doggers like me and shoot them
in the butt. I like my butt and I have a thing about pain. I also have a
thing about liars and it made me a liar by association so I gave it up.
And I still ain't got no truck.
So we're still here on the downside of dating which is that it
eventually leads to the next and most insidious stage of the disease which
is called The Relationship. Oh yeah, you've done it all. You're sadder
and wiser now. You've got it all figured out or you're just plain tired
and lonely so you go and get hooked up. Or of course you meet someone who
is genuinely interesting and fun to be with, but that doesn't happen to
any of us now does it? The Crowning glory of the whole thing is the
acceptance of the new and overused title of BOYFRIEND (or GIRLFRIEND).
I've got a particular abhorrence of that term to the point of panic and
flight. The last time somebody mentioned that word I made a me-shaped
hole in their living room wall and was halfway home while the last
syllable was still wet on her lips.
So what do you do? When I get asked about what title should be used in
conjunction with my name in casual conversation ("like, what are we?
Friends, buddies or boyfriend-girlfriend?"), I like to take out a handy
chart that looks something like this:
BOYFRIENDS BUDDIES FRIENDS
...and I say, "Okay. If I'm your Boyfriend, that means I go in the
column with every guy who broke up with you or who you broke up with after
he drove over your feet or slept with your best friend or got drunk and
puked on your prom dress or who knows what other kind of torture. I for
one do not want to be associated with that, so the Boyfriend column is
out. Buddies are people that you just do the Drinking Bird or the
Horizontal Bop with, but beyond that there's nothing. I don't want that
either. Friends are people who used to be Boyfriends or Buddies, but you
keep them from telling your darkest secrets or slashing your tires by
making them your "friends". Lord knows I don't want to be in that
column." So I add another column that looks like this:
...and I say, "now barring you dating someone else with exactly the
same name, I'm the only one who can be in this column. I'm just me.
That's all I can be. I DIG IT." 'Nuf said.
Oh, now we're somewhere. We're in a Relationship. Yes, that peculiar
institution that comes with its' own set of unwritten rules. Call it what
ya wanna, it's going on with no end in sight and your friends are asking
you "how's so and so", you're deep in the "R" territory. She knows that
you snore and crack your knuckles and love the Raiders and don't like
cream in your coffee, and you know that she hates being pinched on the
butt and being called "hon" and just adores that way you curl you lip up
like Billy Idol. And oh yes, that "L" word has been unsheathed and
brandished for all to see. Whee doggies, we're in a Relationship fo'
sho'. Be forewarned: this one is damaged goods and doesn't come with a
warranty. So before you get too comfortable with the status quo and start
imagining that he'll come around to your way of thinking - STOP! DANGER!
PELIGRO! THAT'S NO GUY, THAT'S A DOG!
Consider the horrifying similarities. You found this adorable little
puppy at the pet shop fire sale. He has a cute little yap and a sweet way
of waggling his little behind so you don't mind if he covers your face
with spit and pees on the rug every once in a while. Then you take him
home and put him on a leash. Oh, but he hates this. He'll whine, he'll
growl, he'll strain on the lead and practically yank your arm off. Then
you feel sorry for him and unsnap the leash. No sooner have you done this
than zzzzing! He's off! He's barking at everything in sight, peeing on
everything, sniffing crotches, baying at the moon and hanging around with
the big dogs from down the block. You call after him but all he'll say is
"it's a dog thing! We run in packs! We've been doing it for thousands of
years!" Then he'll cock up his hind leg for one last whiz and disappear
over the horizon. Then you go home and wait and wait and wait. He
doesn't show and doesn't show and doesn't show. Eventually, by some
miracle he does show and boy are you pissed. So you say, "What do I look
like? Some kennel where you can park you flea-bitten ass any time you
feel like it? I demand respect! I'm a human being! I've been worried
sick!" Of course he'll get all droopy and his eyes will wet and he'll
whimper until your heart just bursts and you break down and pet his l'il
ol' head. Then he'll jump up and bound around and do that little doggie
dance that you love so much in the first place and your hooked again.
Damned to Doggie Hell. But that ain't all! If he comes back and finds
you with another dog, woe is you. Being the immensely territorial canine
that he is, I-pissed-here-so-it's-mine-forever is the law. He'll curl
back his dewlaps and start snapping faster than you can yell heel. Even
in the infidelity is groundless, it's the fastest way to get a real good
secretion of the Macho Gland.
You can apply this theory to any guy you've ever dated and it will ring
frighteningly true. I know. I'm a guy. I once saw a lady wearing a
t-shirt that read "The more I know men, the more I like my dog". I told
her they were one and the same thing. Burn the pet shop down, baby. She
looked at me like I had snakes for hair.
Now before you start feeling like a fire plug, think about this. I've
been there. After all this pessimistic diatribe, I can say that after
every fire in the pet shop, there's another great fire sale. I may smell
like smoke and I may be a little singed, but I still work. And I'm for
40 South Chickenpotpie
Michigillinois, Ohiowa - South Minnebraska, U S of A!