I’m gonna chalk this one up to male goofballness, although I think it’s more widespread.  I think this is done by some women to some men and by gay men on gay men, but it’s something I see most often done by goofballs in bars to unsuspecting girls with cooties, bootys and boobies.

It’s a very goofball thing to do and something I’m sure Flibbertigibbet! will recognize instantly.

It goes like this:  Since I really really really want to get into your pants, ergo, therefore and perforce, you must want to get into my pants back.  At least you’ll want in my pants when you find out how much I really really really want to get into your pants.  No thought is given to giving some unsuspecting woman a reason to want to get into his pants, because that is assumed.  Right.

It works like this:  you are sitting at a bar, minding your own business and maybe having a conversation about gasoline prices and the Iraq war with your best girlfriend.  OK, maybe you’re having a conversation about that bitch at the desk next to you at work.  In any case, you’re having a conversation.  All at once and completly out of the blue, some schlump of a goofball appears in a chair next to you.  He’s holding a cocktail he may or may not be spilling.  “You’re really beautiful,” he tells you.  If you say “thank you”, you are in for some unpleasantness, because it won’t stop there.

He will tell you it was love at first sight.  He will tell you that you are the perfect woman.  He will tell you that you are perfect in every detail and that he finds your ___________ (insert body part here, but often eyes, lips and/or hair) irresistable, it’s just like in his dreams. 

It’s just like obvious bullshit.

It reminds me of that scene in Adaptation where Nick Cage tells himself about the importance of how much love one gives.  Or, “Love is never having to say you’re sorry.”

In all events, it’s a common bit of goofballness to believe that my deep lust results in a mutual feeling.

Here’s a second bit of goofballness … unfortunately, one with a mirror image cootieness on the part of women.  A lot of people are like cats.  You can’t chase us down, but you can entice us easily.  When it comes to flirtation, we can be extremely gullible.  We can really really hear what we want to hear.  In fact, we can hear hints that are not there and make ourselves believe that nothing is something very important.

That same goofball, on the other hand, if she turns around and says: “well, dog, you caught this bus, now what’cha gonna do?”  Oh Fuck.  He will run like a goat on fire.

So much fear.  We fear that we don’t deserve love and that we aren’t loveable and that we’ve been so long without love that we’ve forgotten how.  And on and on.  Goofballness!  Long live avoidance!

And, finally, because these things come in threes, I want to affirm Flibbertigibbet!’s observation about lard ass couch potatoes.  What kind of obvious bullshit is it when a guy who is no more than a 3 on his best day of his life wants nothing to do with any woman who isn’t at least a solid 8+ at the worst point of her life?  Do you really have to be Sigmond Freud to figure that one out?

Get a fucking grip!  You only get to date Julia Roberts and look like Lyle Lovett if you are fabulously talented and brilliant.  You are not Lyle.  You are a goofball.  Get over it.

Ladies, if there is a man in your life who is exhibiting one of these behaviors you are going to want to tell him he’s a goofball in no uncertain terms.  You may even wish to say that his fellow goofball, blogblah, says so.  You may wish to point out to him the error of his thinking and the high obnoxious quotient of his behavior.  Resist the urge, I beg you.  We are goofballs.  We won’t understand and will just be grateful for your attention.  We will think you want to sleep with us as badly as we want to sleep with you.  You will only encourage us.  Your best outcome if you should give into the temptation to be absolutely and positively right is to be called a controlling bitch in every bar on the north side of town.  Worse, you could end up sleeping with a goofball.

That’s how you get cooties, by the way.

blogblah!!!