I’m not so much a “sexual predator” as a scavenger. If my friend John Barleycorn (all names are changed to protect the guilty, the suspected, and the acquitted) is a lion roaming the great Kenyan wildlife preserve of romance/doin’ it, then I’m a hyena or a jackal…I look for the rotting remains of a girl’s psyche and devour what’s left. Or if the lion is merely napping, I’ll take a bite if he’s too sated to rise. So that’s how I get them—they have low self-esteem, empty bank accounts, bad marriages, poor command of the language, a driver’s license with that annoying “Under 21” stamp on it…you get the idea. Teenagers, single moms, six-foot tall amazons…some of them might lay on a veneer of being well-adjusted, but if they wind up with me, well…
Hey, I’m not proud of that. Don’t go judging me, maaaaan…or, wait, maybe you should judge me. I deserve to be judged. Yes, what I do is wrong on many levels and it always has been, no matter the form it took. When I went from a state of self-deception to self-awareness, my guilt became unavoidable.
Special thanks to Dr. Feelgood, my Cambodian chef buddy, for “the hook up.”
Should we let the Israelis and the Palestinians kill each other off? No, we shouldn’t. Imagine all that hot Semite beaver we’d be sacrificing. Get on the ball, Bush Administration, and save our trim!!!
The preceding was brought to you by Samuel Adams Boston Ale—the ale to drink when you’re filled with self-loathing!
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