Imaginary Conversations and Random Thoughts

Alternate title: So This Guy Walks Into A Funeral . . .

You know who I’m talking about right? I mean, not a specific person, but those Ally McBeal types, the ones that go invisible when they turn sideways. Who I always loved before. Not that they were necessarily my preferred choice.

I mean, sure, they’re super hot; there’s just no getting around that. But they also weren’t kidding when they say the brain is the most erogenous zone. Being a sexy person can make up for a lot of not popularly sexy physicality in your form. You know I’m definitely not talking about me. I have rarely been considered sexy either physically or personally. Sure there was this one time when this guy was super friendly, and there was this really engaging conversation. Nothing happened, and only later, when I found out he was gay, did I realize that someone was coming on to me! I’ll grant you, he may have been pretty, but I just wasn’t up for that. And this has nothing to do with hot people, so back to the story.

From around that same time period, maybe fifteen years ago, there was a woman known as Mrs. Azzo. Mrs. Azzo was most assuredly not an Ally McBeal type, and not because the show hadn’t been invented yet. She was perhaps chunky, perhaps pleasingly plump. Maybe that’s one of the perks of actually living in a place filled with hot bikini babes every weekend for six months of the year. Hubby gets all the eye candy he wants (hands off, of course), and wifey keeps him nice and warm in the winter.

In the midst of the hot babes though, Mrs. Azzo was sexy. Yes, I wanted to drool all over the bikini girls. And yes, if I wasn’t such a schmuck, I may have done other things to them, ohhhh so many other things. But I was a schmuck, and even if pretty gay guys did make passes at me, none of the bikini babes did. So I drooled and dreamed away another hot summer. The bikini babes left; Mrs. Azzo stayed. I still think of her now from time to time, when the bikini babes have melted away into the blur that is my subscription to Girls Gone Wild. Mrs. Azzo was alive and real. I wanted her to be my Mrs. Robinson. Never happened.

Now TJ McBoobies and TJ McCoochies have lots of Ally McBeal types. You’ve been to one of these places before, right? For all the fun you can have there (oh boy can you have fun there!), they’re still cold places. The girls there aren’t really real. They may be ideal, but they aren’t real, if you take my meaning. They can nuzzle your cheek and rub perfectly proportioned parts of themselves all over you, but they’re more like pleasure bots perfected by this century’s Bill Gates, whoever he may turn out to be. As great as they are, they aren’t really alive the way Mrs. Azzo was. The relatable spark just isn’t there, no matter how terrifically they may ignite the lust spark.

Several months ago, I became aware of a subset of Ally McBeal types that I like to call the “U” girls. This will take a moment, but stick with me. Imagine there’s a woman standing in front of you, maybe ten feet away, wearing jeans. Start at her feet, and let your eyes move up her legs. Now most women, as you near the hip region, the inseam of the jeans will come together into a nice, pointy, upside down “V” where the thighs touch. Please note that this point is a bit lower than the point where the thighs themselves connect to her hips. Ask me later if you need me to be more specific.

For “U” girls, the thighs keep going up and up, and they never meet in that upside down “V”. Much like a Barbie doll, these girls have a distinct, flat . . . yeesh how can I say this, ummm crotchial type region between the legs, and in jeans, this space ends up looking like an upside down “U”. Full disclosure: I may have mastered the possibilities, as the commercial puts it, once or twice, or fifty times, pondering the glory of the “U” girls. And once I noticed the first one, there have been a few others, and it’s always been a pleasant surprise. As noted, however, these girls are still not quite real, which may be rationalize-speak for out of my league. But not beyond the power of my imagination. Until I got to this funeral.

I was off work for it, hence the daytime post Tuesday. Which is not to say that I didn’t post since then cause I’m all broken up with grief (I'm just a lazy shlub); I was there as more of a support for Carpenter, whose aunt’s passing we were celebrating. If you’ll indulge me in a little side note here, if you have access to someone who’s ninety-three, talk to them. This woman had an amazing life. And do as I say, not as I do. I’m too shallow to do that myself, and yet not so shallow that I won’t regret it at funerals. I’m a complicated guy after all.

Thing is, when you live to ninety-three, you know lots of people in their seventies and eighties, and it was one of these eighties ladies, if you will, herself an Ally type, who turned me off of the Ally types, at least for a while, because quite frankly, and with all apologies to her, whoever she is and I’m sure she’s a nice lady, she looked more cadaverous than the actual dead lady over whom we were having lunch and remembrances.

I hope the memory fades, because right now, no matter how beautiful an Ally type girl is, no matter how much I’d enjoy waking up next to her, and no matter how drunk she’d have to be to make that happen, it wouldn’t be worth waking up to a shriveled, sunken eyed, hollow cheeked zombie in another forty or fifty years.

So real girls only for me from now . . . hold on a sec . . . Dang! How hot is that chick in the Tad Hamilton movie? See you guys later.