I’ve learned about a new strategy some women employ while dating: Don’t name the puppy until you’re sure you want to adopt him. Interesting. Here I thought I was being referred to as “What’s-His-Name,” “Author-Guy,” “Dude,” and “Pal” because she was using terms of endearment. Now I find out she doesn’t name me because she’s not sure she wants to keep me. Pshaw!
I recently overheard women talking about boys they are juggling using obscure references.
- “Boy number three is almost out of the running. He’s a horrible kisser. I’m going to start calling him Slobberpuss.”
- “You have got to check out the body on body-shop guy.”
- “Lawyer guy picked me up in his convertible. It totally fucked my hair for the night.”
- “Toe-Head dude is driving me nuts with all his surfing and dragging sand into my bed.”
- “I wish I could train skinny-boy to go down as often as old-guy does.”
- “Where did boat-shoes guy take you? Let me guess: Sailing?”
- “Cocoa Puff may be a keeper. Dark and lovely works for me.”
- “Mommy’s Boy needs to find a job. I’m tired of hanging out with his parents.”
- “Marathon Man is, unfortunately, a sprinter in the sack. Thank God for vibrators.”
- “Joel asked if I would go to Cabo with him. What should I do?”
WHAT? OMG … YOU JUST NAMED THE PUPPY!
Oh, calm your ass down there, Sassy-Pants. You don’t want to be referred to like the Augusta Golf Course, do you? (Something along the lines of “Hole 1,” “Hole 2,” “Trap,” “Hazard,” etc. You get the picture.) The boy’s parents agonized over finding a name for the lad, he deserves to hear it. You can control yourself, can’t you? Stop it with the “Honey” and “Baby” nonsense. If it gives you indigestion to speak the name Joel, get some fucking Tums and self-restraint, will you?
I don’t see how dating relates to pet adoption anyway. My two cats were named before I claimed them. (In fact, they were named “Louis” and “Peter.” What jackass names a cat something like that? I bet his name was Dick.) I renamed them the second I got them home. I didn’t go around calling them “Puss” and “Purrbag” in fear that naming them would make them keepers. No matter what I named them if they peed on my keyboard their asses would have gone back to the shelter. OK, I hope your dates don’t pee on your keyboard, but you get the picture.
Date all the men you desire, Sugar. Say their names often and please try not to confuse them, especially while dancing horizontally. Call me “Phil,” my love. If you refer to me as “Guy with the Prison Cunt (AKA Goatee),” you get points for creativity and no more free wine.