You Win THIS Time, But We'll Meet Again!Submitted by Teephphah at 2006-04-06 23:49:57 EDT
Rating: 1.57 on 80 ratings (80 reviews) (Review this item) (V)
The other day, my wife and I were going over our "lists." By "lists" I am, of course, referring to the list of celebrities that either of us are allowed to sleep with if the opportunity ever presents itself.
I'm really not quite sure how I got suckered into having such a conversation with my wife; normally I am far too clever to let myself get roped into such a festering, land-mine strewn morass of "abandon hope all ye who enter here." No man can safely have a "talk" with their spouse about what other woman they would like to sleep with. Making that information public is going to come back and bite you in the ass, no matter what countermeasures you take. You know it will.
Nevertheless (and I can only assume as the result of some powerful Jedi mind-trick) I found myself engaged in just such a conversation with my wife. Naturally, she made me go first. She had used her feminine wiles to convince me that I was in a safe place and that anything I might disclose could not and would not be used against me in future arguments.
I am an incredibly naive man sometimes.
Anyway, keeping the story to a manageable length, you should know that I had your typical model types like Elizabeth Hurley or Elle MacPherson on my list. I also had a few musicians and a couple movie stars. In hindsight, it wasn't that great a list. I'm sure I could have done better if I'd been given more time to research my options, but in a pressure situation like that, it is quick decision making that saves lives.
As I say, I was not completely satisfied with the list of potential fuck-bunnies that I had submitted for my wife's review and approval. I was certain that I could have done better had I been allowed more time, but then, as an aside to the qualitative aspect of my list, I had a moment of brief, blinding terror that this whole thing had been a set-up and that my wife would not even have a list of her own.
Things may have been better between us if that had been the case.
Because when she responded to my demand that she produce her own list of the desirable manflesh whose consumption I must allow, she answered my request with one word.
I came back at her with, "aaaaaaaand?"
To which she responded, "Sting."
"You want to sleep with Sting twice?" I asked, not even suspecting my own ineptitude at this point.
My wife put her arm around me and explained that it was probably better that we not explore what sort of things she wanted to do with Sting. She also explained very slowly and with small words that I was able to understand that the entire content of her list, which contained ten slots she could fill with all sorts of hunky celebrity studmuffin, bore only one name, and that name was Sting.
I wasn't quite sure how to take this information at first. If she'd had a list of ten different guys, I could live with that. It would clearly be an exercise in fantasy.
This sounded like she had plans.
Based on the foregoing, I did what any rational reasonable man would do.
I got incredibly drunk.
Following that, I walked my way patiently through the steps a person is supposed to go through when they confront loss, you know, anger, denial, bargaining (I told her she could have Jennifer Anniston, but she turned me down), and finally I reached acceptance.
Hell, I can't compete with Sting. He is better than I am. Just all around better.
But just for fun, let's take a look at all the ways Sting is better than I am.
First, he's a musician. I'm not.
He was in the Police, one of the greatest bands of all time and he's also put out some pretty amazing work on his own. He plays multiple instruments.
Conversely, I've never been in a band and play no instruments.
Second, in the area of endorsements –
Sting gets paid actual, real, live, cash money to ride around and say that he like Jaguars.
Conversely, I have a hard time justifying my mileage on my expense report. Couldn't I have taken a company vehicle?
Also, unlike Sting, I have to pay for my own car, and it isn't a Jag. Fucker.
Third, looks –
Sting looks like Sting. Some might call him "handsome." Still others might say, "fit." My wife just calls him "Ui, Papi!" and points me in the direction of internet rumors about his ginormous peener.
I, on the other hand, do not look like Sting. Unless, that is, Sting suddenly started to develop love-handles and some inexplicable mid-life acne thing that I have going on. In that case, I too look like Sting. A consequence of which would be the conclusion that I too have a ginormous peener. Q.E.D.
Fourth, tantric sex –
Sting practices some weird yoga thing where both sex and orgasms can last for days.
I practice a form of sex where both sex and orgasm can last for seconds, followed by my pasty white and sweaty ass falling asleep on her.
Fifth, languages –
Sting speaks, or at least sings in several different languages. He's got French, Italian, Spanish – you know, the "romance" languages. Rowrrrrr. Sexxxxxy.
Me? I've got a middling control of English. I took two semesters of French in college. I got C's.
Point: Sting (grudgingly)
Sixth, names –
Sting was born with two or more real names. He has, however, since abandoned or outgrown them. Now he is among the elite of the world who only need one name like: Madonna, Cher, Napoleon, Shaq or Stiffler.
I was born with three names. I still have them, and none of them are sexy or exciting.
Seventh, the Simpsons -
Sting has appeared on the Simpsons at least once.
I have not. Some have claimed that I resemble a Simpsons character due to the odd yellowish hue of my skin (I've been meaning to get that looked at) and my lack of distinguishable chin. So once again . . .
Finally, movie roles –
Sting played Feyd in Dune.
I did not play Feyd in Dune. I did, however, play the red-winged black-bird in a play my third-grade class put on in the annual Spring Pageant. Unfortunately, after shopping the script around, we were unable to find a producer, so, no SAG card for me.
Point: We are actually going to call this one a tie, because while I did not play Feyd in Dune, that also means that I didn't have the creepy Baron Harkonen guy checking me out either. So, it’s a draw.
So, looking at the comparisons between what my wife has and what she wants, I can't really fault her. Rather, I'm forced to admire her good taste. This critical analysis of myself as opposed to Sting has also made me realize something else: My odds of scoring with Heidi Klum are just not good. The possibility exists that I have been deluding myself all this time.
Hold on. Wait a cotton-picking minute.
"All this time?"
That's not a fucking Sting lyric, is it?
It fucking is, isn't it? ISN'T IT?!
I should have known there was no fucking getting away from that guy.
Curse you Sting! You win this time, but we WILL meet again!