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.
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