Queen of the Savages

I was walking to the mall to meet my dad for lunch yesterday when I was accosted by what Woody Allen would look like if he were really fat and kind of cross-eyed.  I have a reputation for being hit on by a percentage of our population that falls into an IQ category that I like to refer to as “developmentally challenged.”  But it hasn’t happened in so long, I had almost started to believe that the previous times were just a random coincidence.  Almost:

Fat Woody Allen: Hi! Hi! I just wanted you to know that I’m not married. (Fat Woody Allen is jumping up and down right in front of my face sort of like a pogo stick on crack.  I would guess he is about 60 years old.  He is with a friend who, at least, has the decency to appear embarrassed.)

Me: That’s great for you. If only we could somehow warn your future wife.

FWA: I’m not even dating anyone.

Me: What a surprise. I’m going to go now, ok. But Merry Christmas.  Good luck not continuing to be single next year.

FWA: (Continues to yell at me from across the street concerning his marital status, or lack thereof, as I make my way to the mall entrance.)

I do my best to be nice.  It’s not their fault that they are feeble-minded and think they can’t go on living another second of life without me in it.  But what I wouldn’t give to hear a normal come-on line just once.  You know, the classics, like “Baby, you weren’t the first, but I hope you’re the last” or “If you’re not on the menu, I’m not hungry.”  That would be nice for a change.   Instead I get the equivalent of “I love you. Want to watch me take a shit?” as they audibly drop a load in their pants.

Oh well, I suppose one way or the other it’s flattering that I invoke that type of visceral reaction from anyone, even if they haven’t taken a bath in weeks and don’t know how to spell their own name.