First came my “revolting period.” A period of loneliness when women looked at my pocked face, repulsed, while muttering words such as ugly or gross out or double cheeseburger on rye. The last one never made sense, but I used to hear it a lot before I was fired from that fascist fast food joint.
Oh how I’d look longingly into my neighbour’s seductive eyes, dreaming of love, my body tingling as it pulsed with desire injected adrenaline. This lasted a blissful six weeks, and then I spotted her Adam’s apple and broke my binoculars.
One time, a snooty harpy rejected me, scoffing that she’d rather date a talking fungus. Even when I pleaded that my athlete’s foot had spread to my torso, that still wasn’t fungal enough for this snobby purist. I tried to impersonate a truffle, but three men tried to sell me to a swanky London restaurant—that is, until they heard me speak. “What the hell is this thing?” they lamented. “No truffle would jabber with such a brogue.”
Then, suddenly, I entered my “Adonis period.” It began after I’d noticed that seductively dressed beauties would flirt as I merely walked down the street. Smitten by my charms, they didn’t even want me to pay for a date, and were happy to accept a romantic monetary gift and then immediately express their love.
Self-esteem restored, I mastered seduction. I learned that while girls love dogs, they don’t love dog impersonations. I figure they’re just shy about being asked to impersonate the lamppost.
I learned that if a woman likes you, she’ll give you a coy wink. And I soon noticed that most women winked at me constantly, often with such enthusiasm that they used both eyes in tandem, repeating the procedure every few seconds.
But most of all, I learned that women are impressed by linguistic creativity. I’d captivate a girl in a bar by inventing a new word. For example, I’d say, “My ‘mashinkers’ have been aching for a week, and also smell slightly off.” Enamoured by my skills, she’d stroke me playfully: sometimes my hair, sometimes my chin, and sometimes even my lips—albeit in a subtle, indirect way using her boyfriend’s fist.
Then came my “dating period.” One girl, Tammy, became freaked out by my controversial views on the uncertainty of gravity. I thought, Sure, she might find my bespoke fifty-kilogram boots embarrassing, but, as I keep telling her, “Ain’t no one gonna see me floatin’ away.” But she found it weird, and I suspect she only stayed with me out of fondness of either my extreme wealth or snorkel collection. I then became too afraid to pop the question to her—that is, would she object if I modified the toilet. Heck, if I’m ever right then there’s no way I’m scrubbing that ceiling clean.
Things ended, and soon the smile of a girl named Sally made me go weak at the knees. A smile that, to an onlooker, didn’t even look like a smile; rather, it looked more like someone mouthing, “Get lost jerk.”
At first, she neither spoke nor made eye contact—presumably because she was bashful. I even thought, Maybe she’s blind and is simply a lucky driver? But that was nonsense, because I soon noticed that she crashed frequently, usually when I waved at her in the street, often requiring me to dive for cover. I’d try to talk to her, and she’d do a vomit type mime to her friends, putting her fingers down her throat. I think she was probably hinting that I’d be worth her turning bulimic.
Being a gentleman, I’d walk Sally home each evening, ensuring that she was safe. When she noticed my presence, she’d often break into a coquettish sprint and let out screams of pleasure.
Wooed by my charms, our first date had me wrestling with the usual moral dilemmas. Do I pay or go halves? Should I hold the door open for her? And will she ever understand why I had to use all that rope and tape to help me persuade her to travel in the car boot?
And that brings me to my “incarcerated period.” I used to think that I was locked up out of other men’s jealousy, but now I’m not so sure. The other day I heard the psychiatrist conclude, “This patient is clearly insane. Any fool knows that he’d need at least ninety-kilogram boots, like mine.” Boy, now I’m really dreading my “floating period.”