What a Nice Guy by Phil Torcivia

Sunday, September 4, 2011

Their Own Devices


Men, I am suspecting a devious plot is underway. The fairer sex has developed a fancy device that may spell the end of our gender, or at least the confiscation of our favorite toys. I don’t know how we missed it. Perhaps we were staring too intensely toward the wrong area, hoping for some nipple peakage. Or, maybe it was because ESPN was showing “Web Gems.” Aw, hell, I don’t know. Jesus, we had better act fast because it’s spreading. Ignore the nipples, I tell you. (But, I do love girlie nipples—every bit of them. Not the hair so much. It happens. Seriously. It was not a he-she.)

Oh, sorry.

The plot I’m referring to involves mysterious devices in the form of those wide, sparkly bracelet things women are wearing on their forearms. See that? You haven’t even noticed, have you? You’ve been too busy admiring delicious rumps. (Gosh, I love girlie butt too. I saw a nearly perfect one last night. The jeans she wore must have been custom fitted. It was like an upside-down heart. Ooh wee. Be right back …)

Sorry again.

How the heck did we not see this coming? The devices are quite ornate with sequins, gems, and shiny metals. I mean, shoes I can understand us missing. It’s reasonable that a bitch toe is overlooked because the eyes’ journey was stymied mid-thigh or at the calves. (So, two nights ago, I met these two fitness models and the one had incredible legs. I’m sure she could crush my skull like a walnut. They weren’t man-ish—no, they weren’t hairy or large-pored—just defined and bronze.*sigh*)

Where was I?

That’s right, I was filling you in on the Wonder Woman wrist thing. I think they’re soaked in testosterone. The one I investigated was attached to a Barbie. (You know—the SoCal variety with two shades of hair extensions, globular boobs, and funky nail designs. I think she was in Playboy. I can picture her kneeling in front of me, giving me doe eyes while she …)

Damn it!

You’d expect a woman like this to be sipping something pink while discussing Gucci. Nope. That fancy arm thing possessed her. She was drinking Coors freaking Light … from a bottle! You know what else? She said, “fuck” a lot. I mean, she was cursing like an author. Guess what else? You’ll never guess. She was watching a college football game. That’s right. She yelled, “Where’s the interference call, ref?” at one point. No, she didn’t scratch her crotch, but I could swear she blew a burp at her friend. What a copy-kitten!

I need to find a way to deactivate the device. There’s no way to remove one. Maybe if I spill soymilk over one, the estrogen will cancel out the testosterone and bring her back to fruity drinks and lip-gloss. (Shiny lips give me major wood. I so want to kiss the heck out of them and smear that goo until she resembles a sexy, female version of The Joker.)

Holy shit! I’m infected. Help me. God, help me! It’s … the … bracelet. Argh!

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