Faking It

by Judd HAMPTON
 

Dave, when your marriage falls apart, allow yourself time to grieve. Go ahead and drop on the floor and pound your fists if you have to. We won’t think less of you. When you’re done, get up and dust off your pants. Nobody likes a two-time loser in dirty pants. Check your heart. Is it still beating? Go ahead and reach into your chest cavity and pull out that bad-boy. Your heart is like a ripe piece of fruit the way it quivers in your hand. Lean over and give it a kiss.

Now that your marriage has been over for ten minutes, it’s time you moved on. Don’t say, “I can’t turn off my emotions like a faucet.” This sort of baloney calls into question your sexual orientation, dude. Honestly, we’re surprised you didn’t see this thing coming the night you asked Brenda for a back rub and she said “Oh God.”

Dave, consider embracing your fear of being alone. When you’re done being a complete loser, try asking out Pauline in accounts payable. We’ve seen the way she looks at you. Take her to the Olive Garden. Chicks dig the Olive Garden.

During supper, avoid spilling food and drink in her lap. This gimmick rarely pans out. If you expect a sort of clumsy, apologetic napkin-based grope-fest, you will be disappointed. And don’t talk with your mouth full. Pauline hates self-absorbed, emotionally unavailable men who cram their puke-holes like the overstuffed kitchen catchers they are. Hey, don’t look at us. That’s what we heard.

Do buy her plenty of drinks.

After you’re too drunk to drive, drive Pauline home. Don’t say, “Maybe I should call a cab.” Do you know who obeys the law, Dave? Pansies. Remember, a stop sign is merely a suggestion.

When you arrive at her apartment, walk her to the door. Show her how suave you are by balancing on the handrail, and then fall over backward into a rose bush. While you’re down there, pluck her a rose. Such attentiveness is often rewarded. Do not lift the rose toward the starry sky and quote Shakespeare.

Lean in for a kiss, dude. Go ahead. You deserve it. Don’t say, “Well, I don’t know.” Shall we compare thee to a total loser? Kiss her, you sissy. Aim for her mouth. Steady yourself with the railing if you have to.

When Pauline turns away from your moist, probing mouth and says, “I don’t want to ruin our friendship,” consider this a lesson. She is too good for you. When her apartment door swings frigidly shut, clutch your chest in pain. Throw yourself in the dirt and sob if have to. We won’t think much less of you.

How’s your heart, dude? Still beating? Go ahead and pull it out. Your heart looks like a frightened rabbit the way it trembles in your hand. Why don’t you pat it?

Dave. Quit this brooding crap. Don’t say, “I miss Brenda.” Petty bereavement does not become our gender. Have you considered trolling the bars? We don’t mean The Crown and Anchor. We’re thinking someplace less respectable like The Drunken Whore. We suggest breaking the ice with topical humour. Try this: “Hey, baby, if you want to see my Dick Cheney impression, show me your Bush.” Chicks dig guys who are into politics.

Dave, don’t say, “I’m not comfortable with that suggestion.” This sort of spinelessness makes us reconsider our conclusions about your leather chaps phase.

Speak about what is current and vital to the times. Brag about the size of your hard drive. Chicks dig guys with gargantuan hard drives. Go ahead and lie your rectal cavity off.

Don’t say, “I’m not a very good liar.” You know what this sort of statement calls into question.

Do speak to Tiffany and Delaney sitting beside the jukebox. They say they are airline stewardesses. They seem perfect for you, although we question the quality of an airline that hires these mutts.

Don’t spend the evening pouring your guts out over Brenda. This behavior will not do. Don’t say, “Girls respect sensitivity.” This is the fallacy of our times.

When Tiffany and Delaney say, “It’s refreshing to finally meet someone decent,” don’t take this as an invitation to show them your heart. Do not reach into your chest cavity, Dave. Do not show them the way your heart flops in your hand like a brave fish. When Tiffany and Delaney run away screaming, don’t blame us. We warned you, dude. Don’t say, “Call me!” It makes you look desperate.

Don’t say, “Well, guys, I am desperate.” This sort of confession calls into question your love of Broadway musicals, dude. Throw yourself at the bouncer, or off a bridge if you have to. We won’t think that much less of you.

Dave, remember the time you got drunk and smashed the corner mailbox with your truck because you thought Brenda and the mailman were carrying on? Without a grill, your truck looked as if it was missing its lower jaw. Remember how unsettled you felt looking at it, how you had to turn away? Well, Jacqueline, the Subway sandwich girl, reminds us of that. We think she’s perfect for you.

Don’t say, “I want a rest from dating.” You know perfectly well what this sort of admission calls into question. We think you could impress the sandwich girl with some sassy dialogue involving buns and the positioning of meat. Don’t shake your head at us, dude. We’re trying to help. Don’t get all teary-eyed.

Show us your heart, dude. Let’s see what we have left to work with. Your heart looks like a baby seal the way it lies bleeding in your hand. Forget your heart, man. It’s just a blood pump made out of meat.

Give Brenda a call. We hear she misses you

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