You know what’s impossible to tell a young girl?  It’s too late.  Past my bedtime.  Do not say that.  Along with, “That costs too much money.”  Words that will never pass my lips in their presence.  ‘Cause I want to be young and rich.  At least I’m Rich.

     Young girls have terrible taste in beer.  They seem to think the price is directly proportional to what you get.  Fuck the fancy label.  It’s the smashing of the furniture, the computer through the window, the blood on the porcelain that speaks of a fine beverage.

     I like the young hippie chicks the most, because I think they look pretty hot.  And they generally smell nice, too.  After you’ve spent a hundred bucks at one of those pink “Beauty and Bath” stores for women, totally wasted.  But what are friends for, right?  Just looking out for a buddy.

     I think for legal reasons I should state that by young I mean twenty and up.  I no longer ogle the upcoming crop crowding our school buses, filling the malls.  Aren’t I a hero for that?

     I do believe ‘age of consent’ laws are a good thing.  For everybody else.

     Okay, so the babysitting job is out.  I’m an electrician, anyway.  And I’m working on my ladder when cheer leading practice lets out on the front lawn.  And the girls surround me, and want to learn about- (whoops, wrong book).

     Is it legal to think about girls under the legal age in your jurisdiction?  That’s just a theoretical question, mind you.  I would never do it.  Well maybe just a little.

     Young girls do things that sometimes make me wonder if they’re really human beings (this will alarm my therapist).  Like quitting drinking before passing out.  And worshiping the bathroom in their home.  And eating ‘vegetarian’ pizzas.  That one really scores high on the creep-o-meter.  “You know she’s a loser when…,” right?

      A girl told me once, “I don’t eat red meat.”  I asked her, “Does that mean I’m not getting a blowjob?”  I was disappointed, because I didn’t want the poor dear to miss out.

     I just wanted her to have the finer things in life.  I just wanted to give her so much, and to consider it a gift.  But I’m funny that way, I guess. 

     A gorgeous, sometimes available woman asked me to visually gauge the size of a portable fountain, saying, “The pump will only shoot thirty-six inches.”  I replied, “It’s a good thing I think in increments of nine inches.”  No wonder I got arrested.

     Wait, I don’t like the sound of “nine-inch joke.”  Even when converted to the metric system…

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