Women. Women! Shit, let me tell you about women. You don’t know shit about women. I know shit about women. Key word here is “women.” Or maybe “shit.” Shit, I don’t know, same difference, right? Haha. You’re not laughing? That’s okay, that’s okay, my sense of humor is not for everyone. Anyway, yeah. Buy me a drink, light my cigarette and I’ll tell you about women. Excuse me? You can’t smoke in here? Well, fuck that shit, do I look like I give a flying fuck? Light my smoke and be done with it, for cryin’ out loud! Thanks. So: women. Yeah… First the drink. Whatever that’s imported, and served on the rocks. Only without the rocks. Okay, thanks. So… Women, yeah, shit. Women. They’ll love you, they’ll tease you. They’re ferocious. They can make a pro blush. What? Kim Carnes? Who the fuck is that bitch? A singer? Never heard of her, so you wanna go VH1 on my ass or you wanna hear about women? No, ‘cause I’ll listen to your Behind the Music shit if it’ll make you happy, but since you got me a drink, I thought you wanted to hear me talk about women. So, can I fucking tell you about the fucking women? Thank you. Yeah, anyway… so you gotta woo them, you gotta be a smooth operator. No need to ask. Huh? “Shar-day?” What the fuck? You going Swahili on my ass or what? What?! Another singer?! Dude, seriously: stop with the singers. Not fun. So: women. My trick is this… Call me crazy, but it never fails… You sit next to a woman. It helps if she’s drunk. Then again, have you ever met a non-drunk woman? I didn’t think so. Anyway, you sit next to her, you whisper sweet nothings into her ear. And then you stick the tip of your tongue in her ear. Moisten that shit up, boy. Lick it clean. Literally. Then, with your fingers, you grab the little ball of wax you got on your tongue. Put it on the bar, mold yourself a tiny candle and light it, saying you’re burning a candle for her. Because she inspires you or whatever. Now: you got two kinda women. One kind will leave straight away. Those ones are anal-retentive. Broomstick up the ass or what-have-ya. They probably think their shit tastes better, because they actually tasted their shit and the shit of a dozen other people and theirs was kinda ok. Fuck them scat girls. And when I say ‘scat’ I mean no disrespect to Cab Calloway and the dude cook-man from The Shining. When I say ‘scat,’ I don’t mean “bee bap dee doo bap” but shit. Plain and simple and brown shit. Okay, you got a point, I shoulda said shit from the get go. My bad. Anyway, that kinda bitch is all into scat and I ain’t. If you are, that’s cool, that’s totally cool. But me, personally: no. So, the other kind, as soon as you bring your zippo to the tiny ball of wax, they cream their pants and they want you. Right then and there. Now, the key is… The key, now, is to pretend you’re bored. You go back to your drink, light a smoke and ignore the bitch. She’ll rub your arm, ask you where you’re from. She won’t even think to ask what kinda car you’re driving or how much you got in the bank. She’ll want you. So you stand up and walk to your car. Now, there are two more kinda girls. Or women. Or whatever. Two more kinda walkin’-poons. No, not ‘spoons,’ poons. The one will just stay at the bar, too confused, too dumb, too shy, too whatever. You don’t need that kinda girl. You let her simmer in her own juices – literally – and walk the fuck out and get in your car and drive the fuck away. The other kind… Well, the other kind will follow you out. The other kind is gonna talk to you as you pay the valet and wait for your car. The other kind will try to act sexy and cool and all that shit. The other kind will climb in your car and tell you the dirtiest, nastiest shit you’ve ever heard in your life. That kind will be ready to fuck you senseless till you cry. To fuck you till your balls roll outta your nostrils. You’re laughing. You think it’s funny? No? You think it’s cool? Yeah, I thought so. That kinda girl is the kinda girl you’re looking for, ain’t it? Well, lemme tell you something, little buddy: that kinda girl is worse that the worst fucking whore you’ve ever picked up. Worse than the scabby, herpes-infested crack-ho you picked up, only to discover she wasn’t a she, but an unshaven he. You know what I’m talkin’ about? Well, you will. You’re still young. You will. Believe you me. What? What’s my point? Ain’t it obvious?! My point is they’re all whores. If they sleep with you, they’re skanky hos. If they don’t, they’re snobby hos. A ho is a ho is a ho. And that’s that. My point, my well dressed young friend, is: don’t go looking for sex tonight, ‘cause their ain’t no sex to be had in Hollywood
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