I know this from actual experience, because I was one. Don’t laugh; it’s true. I said it’s true, fuck you.
Now, with the passing of the decades, I’m no longer hot. I have to rely on outrageous cuteness and an incisive wit. Okay, mostly on the cuteness thing. In a Yoda sort of way.
So, anyway. Today I’m going to talk to you about my accountant and his wife, because I just got a call from each of them, following my as usual bizarre email replies to them.
We’ll call my accountant ‘Pete’, largely because that’s his name. I think if I called him Fred or Alonzo he probably wouldn’t answer to the former and he’d hate the latter. Not that there’s anything wrong with being called Alonzo, even though it’s a shithouse name. It’s just not Pete’s name and I’ve found, with the wisdom of the years, that its better to call people by the name they’re most used to. It’s why I call my boss ‘Stupid’, just like his wife does.
Wives are important. More important than girlfriends. A girlfriend can’t divorce you and bat her eyes at the judge in the hope of being slung another 10 large she didn’t earn and doesn’t deserve. No, really, she’s doing it for you, because being homeless and destitute is character-building. Apparently.
They are less important than hands, though. Let’s face it, your wife might say no, roll over and go to sleep, but your hand doesn’t. Actually, I woke up one night and I couldn’t feel my hand, so my hand couldn’t feel me, if you know what I mean. Too much information? Hmmm … I thought you liked me and were interested in what I have to say.
As you were, then. Back to Pete. He wants a guitar. A very, very expensive guitar. Apparently, there are only a few of these particular ones in the whole country and as luck would have it, both sellers live in the same suburb as I do, which is why Pete emailed me and asked if I’d swing by, check them out, and buy the best one.
There’s just one hitch in all of this. He hadn’t asked his wife for ‘permission’. Permission? That’s all sorts of fucked up, right there. “What, are you like 10 years old or something?” I asked. “Get the fucking guitar.” Look, if it were me I’d rather apologise later than go, testicles in hand, and ask for permission. Let’s face it; she’s hardly going to cut off today what she might want to play with tomorrow.”
He wasn’t convinced. What a wuss! You can recover from a good, solid kick in the nuts. Women don’t even realise that when they give us the silent treatment we’re actually enormously relieved. Peace at last! Being able to dick around and write shit and read blogs and stuff without having to go through that while “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Yes, of course I’m interested in what you have to say, but, ‘blogs’, you know?”
So I said “Look, it’s really fucking simple.” What I didn’t say, but thought, was “You’re fucking pussy-whipped, dude.” Jesus! The man’s as big as a mountain, as generous as a recurring boil on your arse, and a great provider of cars and holiday homes. Lisa, his wife, is a real sweetie. Except to him. Talk about The Taming of the Shrew.
“Pete, it works like this. You invoke boyish charm.” I said. Really, I shouldn’t have to be telling him this and I sort of feel he’s letting the side down. He didn’t think it would work. We agree that pointing out her outrageous and insupportable ‘lifestyle’ purchases would be a bad idea. Chicks are weird. They need shitty and expensive handbags. They need 500 pairs of shoes that cost as much as the national debt, look like shit, and make their toes point sideways. Apparently, they’re doing it for us. And we don’t call them on this shit? No wonder we’re the weaker sex.
Years ago, back when I was a hottie, I had hair down to my bum and 8 earrings in each ear. I had an eclectic style. All true. Luckily, I was also a total babe in the personality department, which fortunately I’ve managed to keep. Five years ago Lisa told me she and all ‘the girls’ used to drool over me because I was ‘hippy hot’. I got the shits. Look, apart from the fact that I get so tired of being treated like a sex object, why the fuck didn’t she tell me back when I was hot and could have used it to my advantage? Now, those same women are just old, bitter, and twisted and out to punish the next guy for what the last one did or didn’t do. That, and now I’m no longer hot. Everyone just has to settle for merely ‘gorgeous’. Life’s unfair.
Pete wasn’t at all confident he could pull it off. The guitar thing, that is. I have no notion of his sexual prowess or proclivities. I barely have any notion of mine anymore. My dick’s been so long out of a job it’s ready to apply for unemployment benefits.
Ahem. Moving right along. “Pete, just remember that with great power comes great responsibility.” He thought I was quoting ‘Kick Ass’. “It was fucking ‘Spiderman’, you douche!” And it’s beside the point, even though being Spiderman would be all sorts of fucked up awesome. I quietly told him a life-changing secret. This is the shit that makes Law of Attraction look like a bad American sitcom. Oh, that’s right. Law of Attraction is a bad American sitcom.
“Pete, if you really want something from Lisa … say my name.” He looked at me. And looked at me. Okay, we were emailing so he didn’t actually, y’know, look at me, but he would have if he was here. “I mean it, dude. Just tell her ‘Les said you’d let me.” and you’re good to go. He didn’t seem convinced but he said he’d give it a try. Desperate men will try desperate acts.
Twenty minutes later I got a call from Lisa. “Did you tell Pete I’d let him buy that guitar?” she asked, a bit snarkily. “Lisa,” I said, because chicks love it when you say their name like that. “Lisa, I did. He’s my friend, and what makes him happy makes me happy. What makes me happy makes you happy. So we can all just sit here being happy, okay?” Dead silence, followed by more dead silence. “Okay, but I still think it’s a waste of money,” she said. “Be gracious now. You can always make him pay for it later.” She laughed.
Pete’s getting his guitar. He has permission.
Now, if only I could find someone I really hate, so that I could lose my home in a divorce settlement a decade from now, life would be complete. Actually, I almost came close today. I was sitting in the park at the end of my street, drinking a coffee and enjoying the autumn sunshine, when a woman I sort of knew from when I worked locally sat down and said she knew me. I didn’t want to talk so I brushed her off with a mistaken identity comment. No, she insisted she knew me. So I squeezed her tit. She was shocked. “I told you you don’t know me.” Okay, that didn’t really happen but it was a good line and I wanted to use it.
And I think that’s about all I wanted to tell you right now.