After Mads, my Norwegian companion, and I watched the finale of Age of Love we thought: we should do our own. We had our own early 30s bachelor in Matty, and it wouldn't take long to go through our considerable stables of women to find 4 kittens and 4 cougars. We were doing this.
"No way," Matty said.
"Are you kidding me?"
"Totally not. Why would I do that?"
"We have eight hotties, competing to do you. What's better than that?"
"You're a moron."
Mads and I decided to go ahead with the show anyway, and just tricked Matty into showing up. It took him a second to figure it out. The women had no idea he didn't know. I was waiting for Matty to take me aside or call me out, or maybe even go along with it, but he took an entirely different track: he sat in his chair and didn't say anything, watching the Sox game. I turned it off.
"You're killin' me, Matty."
He walked over to me.
"Let's get down to brass tacks here. I'm not Mark Phillipoussis (sp?). I have a bad Australian accent, I suck at tennis, and I'm 5'7" and out of shape. You've got no show here. I'm sorry, but they're just out of my league."
He patted me on my back. I looked to Mads, and he nodded in perspicacious agreement.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment