Johnny America


Fak­ing It


Dave, when your mar­riage falls apart, al­low your­self time to grieve. Go ahead and drop on the floor and pound your fists if you have to. We won’t think less of you. When you’re done, get up and dust off your pants. No­body likes a two-time los­er in dirty pants. Check your heart. Is it still beat­ing? Go ahead and reach in­to your chest cav­i­ty and pull out that bad-boy. Your heart is like a ripe piece of fruit the way it quiv­ers in your hand. Lean over and give it a kiss.

Now that your mar­riage has been over for ten min­utes, it’s time you moved on. Don’t say, “I can’t turn off my emo­tions like a faucet.” This sort of baloney calls in­to ques­tion your sex­u­al ori­en­ta­tion, dude. Hon­est­ly, we’re sur­prised you did­n’t see this thing com­ing the night you asked Bren­da for a back rub and she said “Oh God.”

Dave, con­sid­er em­brac­ing your fear of be­ing alone. When you’re done be­ing a com­plete los­er, try ask­ing out Pauline in ac­counts payable. We’ve seen the way she looks at you. Take her to the Olive Gar­den. Chicks dig the Olive Garden.

Dur­ing sup­per, avoid spilling food and drink in her lap. This gim­mick rarely pans out. If you ex­pect a sort of clum­sy, apolo­getic nap­kin-based grope-fest, you will be dis­ap­point­ed. And don’t talk with your mouth full. Pauline hates self-ab­sorbed, emo­tion­al­ly un­avail­able men who cram their puke-holes like the over­stuffed kitchen catch­ers they are. Hey, don’t look at us. That’s what we heard.

Do buy her plen­ty of drinks.

Af­ter you’re too drunk to dri­ve, dri­ve Pauline home. Don’t say, “Maybe I should call a cab.” Do you know who obeys the law, Dave? Pan­sies. Re­mem­ber, a stop sign is mere­ly a suggestion.

When you ar­rive at her apart­ment, walk her to the door. Show her how suave you are by bal­anc­ing on the handrail, and then fall over back­ward in­to a rose bush. While you’re down there, pluck her a rose. Such at­ten­tive­ness is of­ten re­ward­ed. Do not lift the rose to­ward the star­ry sky and quote Shakespeare.

Lean in for a kiss, dude. Go ahead. You de­serve it. Don’t say, “Well, I don’t know.” Shall we com­pare thee to a to­tal los­er? Kiss her, you sis­sy. Aim for her mouth. Steady your­self with the rail­ing if you have to.

When Pauline turns away from your moist, prob­ing mouth and says, “I don’t want to ru­in our friend­ship,” con­sid­er this a les­son. She is too good for you. When her apart­ment door swings frigid­ly shut, clutch your chest in pain. Throw your­self in the dirt and sob if have to. We won’t think much less of you.

How’s your heart, dude? Still beat­ing? Go ahead and pull it out. Your heart looks like a fright­ened rab­bit the way it trem­bles in your hand. Why don’t you pat it?

Dave. Quit this brood­ing crap. Don’t say, “I miss Bren­da.” Pet­ty be­reave­ment does not be­come our gen­der. Have you con­sid­ered trolling the bars? We don’t mean The Crown and An­chor. We’re think­ing some­place less re­spectable like The Drunk­en Whore. We sug­gest break­ing the ice with top­i­cal hu­mour. Try this: “Hey, ba­by, if you want to see my Dick Ch­eney im­pres­sion, show me your Bush.” Chicks dig guys who are in­to politics.

Dave, don’t say, “I’m not com­fort­able with that sug­ges­tion.” This sort of spine­less­ness makes us re­con­sid­er our con­clu­sions about your leather chaps phase.

Speak about what is cur­rent and vi­tal to the times. Brag about the size of your hard dri­ve. Chicks dig guys with gar­gan­tu­an hard dri­ves. Go ahead and lie your rec­tal cav­i­ty off.

Don’t say, “I’m not a very good liar.” You know what this sort of state­ment calls in­to question.

Do speak to Tiffany and De­laney sit­ting be­side the juke­box. They say they are air­line stew­ardess­es. They seem per­fect for you, al­though we ques­tion the qual­i­ty of an air­line that hires these mutts.

Don’t spend the evening pour­ing your guts out over Bren­da. This be­hav­ior will not do. Don’t say, “Girls re­spect sen­si­tiv­i­ty.” This is the fal­la­cy of our times.

When Tiffany and De­laney say, “It’s re­fresh­ing to fi­nal­ly meet some­one de­cent,” don’t take this as an in­vi­ta­tion to show them your heart. Do not reach in­to your chest cav­i­ty, Dave. Do not show them the way your heart flops in your hand like a brave fish. When Tiffany and De­laney run away scream­ing, don’t blame us. We warned you, dude. Don’t say, “Call me!” It makes you look desperate.

Don’t say, “Well, guys, I am des­per­ate.” This sort of con­fes­sion calls in­to ques­tion your love of Broad­way mu­si­cals, dude. Throw your­self at the bounc­er, or off a bridge if you have to. We won’t think that much less of you.

Dave, re­mem­ber the time you got drunk and smashed the cor­ner mail­box with your truck be­cause you thought Bren­da and the mail­man were car­ry­ing on? With­out a grill, your truck looked as if it was miss­ing its low­er jaw. Re­mem­ber how un­set­tled you felt look­ing at it, how you had to turn away? Well, Jacque­line, the Sub­way sand­wich girl, re­minds us of that. We think she’s per­fect for you.

Don’t say, “I want a rest from dat­ing.” You know per­fect­ly well what this sort of ad­mis­sion calls in­to ques­tion. We think you could im­press the sand­wich girl with some sassy di­a­logue in­volv­ing buns and the po­si­tion­ing of meat. Don’t shake your head at us, dude. We’re try­ing to help. Don’t get all teary-eyed.

Show us your heart, dude. Let’s see what we have left to work with. Your heart looks like a ba­by seal the way it lies bleed­ing in your hand. For­get your heart, man. It’s just a blood pump made out of meat.

Give Bren­da a call. We hear she miss­es you.

Filed under Fiction on November 25th, 2005

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Reader Comments

SA wrote:

Very nice, I felt my balls breathe a lit­tle as I read it.

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