No ifs, ands or butts about it

blog_this_tramp_stamp_tattooJust read that some French university professor conducted a little experiment on a beach. He sent out onto the sand a group of scantly-clad good-looking women. They were bait – cast out to try to catch the red-blooded, carnivorous sucker fish, a.k.a. man. They landed a few.

He then reeled the babes back in, but before throwing them back out there he slapped on some “tramp stamp” temporary tattoos.

Eureka – feeding frenzy. To find the reason behind it (I suppose pun intended), he asked the men why they’d approached the lovely ladies. After all, they went nearly unnoticed during the earlier trip along the shore. What gives?

Yup, ’twas the tramp stamps. Most of the men said the tats sent them a subliminal message – oh lookee-here, some females who’ll probably let me talk to them, maybe even have sex with me on the first date. After all, they are … um, tramps, right?

I said most of them thought that, not all. The others? Who knows. Maybe they thought they were stamps. Hey, I said the sucker fish was carnivorous. Not intelligent.

Behold, the power and attraction of the tramp stamp. Just ink under the skin, just above the posterior. Something so trivial, seemingly inconsequential, pretty dumb actually. But who I am to say? The professor did his research, I’ve no evidence to back up my claim, to refute him.

So I must do my own investigation. But it’s too damn cold today to go to the beach. So, I shall Bing this thing and let the Internet do my data collection for me. OK, all of you tramp stamps out there, show me your best stuff, convince me you have some power …

Now, help me out here. I'm supposed to see this cow pulling up your rear and start thinking of ... what again? Sorry, I'm feeling it yet.

Now, help me out here. I’m supposed to see this cow pulling up your rear and start thinking of … what again?

So ... what was it you say happened to all of your other boyfriends again?

So … what was it you said happened to all of your old boyfriends?

Thanks so much for the warning ... I'll be on my way now.

Thanks for the warning … I’ll be on my way now.

Woo-boy - okie-dokie, please tell me I'm just taking this out of context ...

Woo-boy. Okie-dokie – please tell me I’m just taking this out of context …

Um, I see this and one word comes to mind. No, not sex. Brevity.

Um, one word comes to mind. No, it’s not sexy. Brevity.

Oh, I get it. Star Wars ... C-3PO ... May the Ass be with you? No.

Oh, I get it. Star Wars … R2-D2 … May this Ass be with you? Lemme think. No.

Well, there you have it. I’m convinced the professor’s findings, and many men’s brains, are full of shit. But if you’re not yet, just give it time. How so? Remember – only time will tell …

tramp-stamp-forever 18I rest my case.

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Farewell, my plasma

Germany: In a study of 2,200 Germans commissioned by the Hamburg-based Foundation for Future Studies, 57 percent of the women surveyed said they’d rather give up sex than television for an entire year.

United States: An iVillage-commissioned study found that 63 percent of the married women surveyed would rather read, sleep or watch a movie than have sex with their spouse.

Britain: A QVC poll surveyed 3,000 Brits and found that one in 10 actually love the television more than they love their partner. According to the Daily Mail, more than a tenth of those polled said they’d rather split up with their significant other than give up watching television.

Any City, Anywhere:

I saw him just as I’d reached the top of the stairs; he was leaning on the wall, right next to the locked door to my office. He looked like he’d been waiting for a while and he probably had, since it was more than two hours past the open-for-business hour painted on my door.

I had two good reasons for being late. The first was I hadn’t had any new work in more than a month. The second was a little closer to home. I’d been at war with the residue  of the previous night, doing my best to exorcise a demon of a hangover that had jumped me as soon as I’d opened my eyes that morning. Six aspirins and a Bromo hadn’t tamed it. Didn’t even slow it down.

But as bad as I felt, it looked like he had me beat – he looked worse. By my guess the last time he’d had a good night’s sleep, Reagan was still in the White House. By the looks of his clothes, that probably also was the last time he’d ironed them.

But rather than feel sorry for him, what was I thinking? Great, another “client” going to use my bill to light his cigarette instead of sending it back with a check. The thought made that damn demon bouncing between my temples start tap-dancing.

“Mr. Harlowe? Philip Harlowe, the private eye?”

“Guilty on both counts,” I mumbled as I shoved my key into the door lock, turning it and the knob and pushing the door open. “Thanks for holding up the wall there.”

“Mr. Harlowe, I need your help.”

“Well, this is your lucky day,” I said as I headed to the coffee maker. “It’s Wednesday and Wednesday is Help Day around here. Had you come tomorrow, you’d be pitching in and folding my laundry. What can I do for you?”

“I need you to find my wife.”

“When you’d lose her? And it might help if I knew your name. After all, you know mine.”

“It’s George, George Finley. She’s been gone for more than two days now,” he said.

“What have you got that I can work with? She leave a note, got a girlfriend, a place or a boyfriend she might run to?”

“Not that I know of,” he said, looking down at a wad of crumpled papers clutched in his hands. “All she, her name’s Beulah, all she left behind were these.” He handed them to me as I sat down at my desk. I motioned for him to take a chair.

I separated the stack. Credit card receipts. For purchases made over a period of a few days and all charged at the same store. Best Buy. Electronics, every single one.

I doubted there were enough Beulahs in the world to equal all of the scribbled Beulahs scattered across my desk.

“You got any idea what she was buying and why she was buying so many of them?”

“Not a clue,” he said. “We, we weren’t talking much lately. She just seemed to want to watch TV rather than even look at me. I haven’t had my hands on the remote in months. She’d just growl if I got near it and snatch it away.”

“Hmmm, odd. What she’d take with her?”

“That’s the strange thing,” he said, the question seemingly shocking him alert. “Just a few clothes, as far as I can figure. But every TV in the house is gone, along with all of the extension cords in the garage.”

“Well, let me look around, ask around and see what I can find out. Now go home and get some sleep and let me get to work.”

“Thank you Mr. Harlowe,” he said as he raised himself up from the chair. “I don’t care what she’s done or who she’s done it with. I just want my Beulah to come home. And hopefully bring along the 42-inch flatscreen too.”

It turned out not to be too hard to track Beulah down. A trip to the Best Buy and a $20 bill slipped to the clerk got me the address she’d given for the delivery of all of her purchases.

The motel owner was only too glad to show me the room she’d rented, as well as give me a copy of the electric bill he’d just received since she’d moved in. I pulled the plugs on the extension cords running out of the room, slid the bill under the door, went back to my car and waited.

Within an hour, a U-Haul truck pulled up outside the room. In less than another one, the cords, the TVs and Beulah were out of there. And on their way home to George, I figured.

I gave George a call and told him he’d soon see a U-Haul backing into his driveway and to take it as a sign that his Beulah would soon return. A few minutes later he called back and told me I was better than Nostradamus. I told him the service was no extra charge.

I didn’t mention his flatscreen. He’d just have to find it on his own, somewhere among the 27 other ones he and Beulah now owned.

The search for the holy male

I’ve come to yet another conclusion about myself.

I’ll grant you this; it doesn’t happen often. For the most part I tend to let sleeping clods lie, go with the slow, look the other way and cross to the other side of my psyche whenever I feel a moment of inner reflection or self-inspection coming my way. But every now and then a light comes on and I’m unable to dim or divert its brilliant beam. It shines down on me and I’m forced to see myself for what I am. And there, laid bare in all of its stark and searing nakedness, is the unadulterated truth.

Well, it’s happened once again.

I just may not be the perfect man.

See, the British clothier Austin Reed polled 2,000 women. Asked them to list all the qualities they want most in a man. Then AR put them all together, clicked their heels twice and abracadabra … they made themselves a 30-point checklist suitable for use in determining if you have found the “perfect man”.

Thirty of them? Piece of personality cake. Lemme at this thing. Ahem … the qualities in the perfect man are:

  • 6 feet tall (aHA. I remember from Algebra 101: More than 5, round-up.)
  • Toned and athletic (Just watch how far I can throw this one.)
  • Brown eyes (I’ve often been told I’m so full of ****, my blue eyes turn brown.)
  • Short dark hair (Assume you mean shorter than two feet, darker than white.)
  • Smart dress sense (Not once have I put the pants on where the shirt goes.)
  • Beer drinker (Only six-pack I possess. Just call me Mr. Perfecto.)
  • Non-smoker (Ummm … dunno. I’ve never been on fire.)
  • Wears smart jeans, shirt and a V-neck jumper (Wouldn’t be caught dead in dumb jeans or shirt but better be if I’m ever found in a “jumper,” any letter.)
  • Gets ready in 17 minutes (Easy. Under 10 if I skip brushing my hair and teeth.)
  • Stylish (Been told my style is all my own – no one else would have it.)
  • Wants a family (Sure, any one but the Kardashians.)
  • Earns $77,000 a year (I find talking of one’s income so superficial, don’t you?)
  • Loves shopping (Drop me at a Cabela’s; pick me up in a year.)
  • Eats meat (What else you supposed to do with it?)
  • Clean shaven (At ‘Twilight,’ I’m a vampire, not a werewolf.)
  • Smooth chest (Haven’t gotten a splinter yet.)
  • Watches soaps (Duh – you don’t watch, you slip on it and fall.)
  • Enjoys watching football (Please, don’t make this so easy for me.)
  • Drives an Audi (No problem, same as driving my Chevy.)
  • Educated to degree level (Life is learning, no matter what the temperature.)
  • Earns more than his other half (My left half has more money than my right, it has my wallet.)
  • Jokes around and has a laugh (Haven’t stopped since starting this.)
  • Sensitive when his wife/girlfriend is upset (Of course … obviously you haven’t been whacked by my wife when she’s upset. It’s very sensitive for a long time.)
  • Says ‘I love you’ only when he means it (I believe in quality over quantity.)
  • Admits it when he looks at other women (I admit that I was just looking for any oncoming traffic coming from that sidewalk. Safety first.)
  • Has a driver’s license (Picture almost looks like me.)
  • Can swim (If I have to, faster than a shark.)
  • Can ride a bike (Like Lance, sans the spandex.)
  • Can change a tire (Certainly, but better at driving on a flat one.)
  • Calls mom regularly …

As a matter of fact, I just got off the phone with her. She says I’m perfect. So there.