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Nobody Ever Tells Me Anything
by Tony R. Lindsay

You won’t believe what a friend told me today. After all these years, somebody finally explained it. I didn’t know. Nobody told me. I just learned that when a woman says Drop Dead, it means she really likes you.

I didn’t know that!

When I was single, girls stood in line to tell me to drop dead. Now I realize that those women were crazy about me. When I think about all the cuddling I missed, I want to cry.

If I had known how women really felt about me, I could have been as popular as the singer, Tom Jones. There I was living in a bone-dry desert of affection, and he would strut onto a stage wearing white pants that were spray-painted on his nether region. He would croon and the girls would scream and spasm. Then he would ooze into a rocking motion of his hips. Delirious females would throw their panties at his feet.

And me, sleeping with a teddy bear.

Did you ever wonder how those girls kept their jeans on and got their panties off?

The floor was littered with lace and itsy-bitsy thongs. If those girls had thrown their silks to me, I would have snatched them in midair and taken those ditties home. And I would still have them. The only treasurers in my humidor are old cigars.

A friend of mine is seventy-nine years old and has more girlfriends than Carter has pills. “Wilbur, how do you do it? Why do women drape all over you?”

“It’s because of my incredible sexual stamina. I can go for two hours.”

“You must swallow a boatload of those little blue pills.”

“Nope. I wear a jockstrap soaked in starch. When that jockey comes off, I’m as ready as a bull elk.”

Twenty minutes later, I picked up a jock strap and a three-pound box of starch at Costco. The girl at the checkout counter asked, “What are you going to do with all that starch?”

“I’m gonna soak my new jockstrap in it.”

“Oh dear, it will be as stiff as a poker.”

See what I mean! Everybody knows about starch but me. Nobody ever tells me anything.