Since we're still stuck in the winter of our discontent, our Dark Age before the Dawning of the New Light of Our Beloved Gene, I have decided to take forth the reins of hilarity and Channel Gene with a Just Inside The Beltway column.
Essentially, I shall rewrite a classic Gene column and show what would happen if everybody's favorite middle aged culturally Jewish humor writer from New York had been replaced with, well, me. A bonafide Maryland mutt with no real moral compass or the complusion to do anything about it. Ray's Close Shave The adventures of a not-so-smooth operator Originally done By Gene Weingarten Sunday, June 25, 2006; Page W40 The question that we columnists hear most frequently is: "Do you use water when you bathe, or just an ungodly amount of Axe deoderant spray?" It's a stupid question, because I'm almost 34, and everybody knows that only socially-awkward 15 year old boys use Axe because they're too young to get Drakkar (that's for the 18 year olds). So I generally ask people to rephrase it using proper grammar, which they do: "Have you ever groomed yourself, assface?" Today, I will end the unpleasantness with a straight answer. We columnists do our grooming in many ways: applying creams, scented lotions, attaching various vibrating devices to appendages that can be found at MVC, 5625 Leesburg Pike, Bailey's Crossroads, Falls Church Virginia, by writing things for bored humor enthusiasts who can't wait for a real humor writer to come back. This column is a case in point. I got the idea from a gifted writer named Gene Weingarten who stole this idea from some kid named Danny Jacobs, who asked Gene for his opinion of a humor piece he had done for his college paper at the University of Maryland. Gene said it was swell. Then Gene stole it. Now I'm rewriting it. This is all part of my personal program to shame humor columnists to participate in chats again. Gene stole the article to acquaint young journalists with important truths. In this case: Beware, there are vultures everywhere. For his article, Danny shaved one half of his face with a new, super- hyped five-blade razor, the other half with his trusty electric, and then had fellow students feel which shave was closer. (The blade.) It occurred to Gene that in the hands of a pro such as himself, this idea would present an important journalistic opportunity to ask women he did not know to stroke my face. Since I'm at least 35% more perverted than Gene, I figured this would be fine excuse to get women to cop a feel of my supple buttocks. Plus, I have a great ass. For the past 2 years -- to the derision of my family and friends -- I have been riding my bicycle to and from work on a heavy steel mountain bike from 1994. No sane person has used a mountain bike this heavy since the era of carbon fiber composites and titanium alloys; barring of course the waves of recent immigrants who ride similar bikes to and from their jobs at the Jerry's Subs and Pizza. I ride this way because I think it's cool to ride a bike twice a day with something that weighs as much, practically, than an Olson Twin. But that's really a bad simile, so I tell people I do it because the heavier bike and fatter tires give me a better work out. Here was an opportunity to discover whether all this bike riding might actually be making my ass *too* good. I rode into work yesterday using my heavy bike to get to work, only using my left leg to pedal. Today, I used my lightweight racing bike using only might right leg. In the interest of science, I am now about to go out in the food court and ask 30 women to judge the results. Hang on. Okay, I'm back. I am pleased to report that all but three agreed to participate. One of these turndowns, however, did not go well at all. She listened patiently to my proposal and then wordlessly began to run/walk away in the direction of the Pentagon's police staff, a group of anti-terrorism specialists with submachine guns. Mustering as much dignity as possible, I headed away, slowly but purposefully, in the opposite direction. Another turndown went like this: Pam: Are you asking only women? Me: Well . . . yes. Pam: Why? Me: Pam: I'll do it if you get a man to do it first. So I guess, in that case, it was actually I who declined. Most women seemed to take this diagnostic task very seriously. Several checked with the backs of their hands, like a mom testing for fever. Philosophically, the experience was intriguing -- a metaphor for the uncertainty of romance. The mechanics of a caress aren't all that different from those of a slap; it's mostly a matter of emphasis. At the Citibank ATM, I explained to a woman named Christianne what I wanted her to do, and she asked: "You mean . . . with my hand?" I stammered the first thing that came into my head: "Well, with whatever you think appropriate." She did it anyway. There were scary moments. One young woman named Carole heard my pitch, and, stony-faced, immediately reached into her pocketbook (mace?) and produced a business card (lawsuit?). Fortunately, she just rubbed the edge of the card against my cheeks, listening for differences in the scratching sound. "Disappointed I didn't use my palm?" Carole asked. "No!" I lied. Now I know what you are thinking: You are thinking that only a perverted man would derive some sort of pleasure from this tiny, silly degree of anonymous intimacy. And I'd have to say you were right. I am completely ashamed of myself. The final tally: Thirteen said the left side of my butt was firmer. Thirteen said the right side was smoother. One could not decide. In short, I may have to do it again. For science. ***************************************************************
