I’ve been told I’m too aggressive when I try to attract a woman’s attention.  I gave the chick who got me fired about one-hundred fifty music CDs before the axe fell.  They were all requests. She never even liked me for an instant.  But she kept the CDs.  You gotta admire that kind of crass materialism.  Team America, fuck yeah.

     She threatened to file harrassment charges against me because I called her twice one weekend after work hours.  My boss sent me to a psychiatrist who pronounced me “emotionally disturbed.”  I told the dude, “Bill me.”

     The only women who seem to like me are always older and already married.  I can always count on them to return my calls.  Trying to get a twenty-something chick to call me is like pulling teeth.  Wait, that’s a bad analogy.

     I guess one of my problems is that I’m an incurable romantic.  No woman would ever wear an apron in my house, unless that’s all she was wearing, and while we’re at it, how about a dog collar?

     There really is no limit to what I would do for a woman.  I would walk through fire.  I would swim an ocean.  I would push my truck to the moon.  That’s the only vacuum she would ever know.  The vacuum of space.  From behind the steering wheel. 

     But talk like that isn’t what women want.  They want nonchalance.  The only thing I can never give.  I focus like a laser beam, to my regret.  Caring deeply never got me anywhere, except jail and the unemployment line.

     The hardest electrical task I’ve ever performed was installing a chandelier while five women watched me.  That was tough.  If a wide receiver in the NFL fumbled that many times, he’d be banished from the game for eternity.

     Which is pretty much where I am in the game of male-female relationships.  Not standing on the sidelines.  Hanging by a rope from the blimp above.  It’s a helluva view from up there, but everyone just sees the balloon.

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