Big Greg's Failed Attempts at Pussy

Choose Your Poison:

The Latest Failed Attempt

You were the sexy blonde librarian at the Antioch Public Library yesterday. I was the guy who had come up with the ingenious new system for shelving books based on color and height. I was in the process of implementing my system when you asked what I was doing. I had wrapped my library card in tin foil and flashed it really quickly like they do on those cop shows, as I said “book cop, nothing to see here”, and went back to reorganizing the books, but you were persistent. You are simply another automaton in the tyranny of the Dewey Decimal System, aren’t you? You ever stop to think that some of us have had bad decimal experiences? It looks exactly like a period. When I suggested that we simply have a standard color for every book subject, like all books on baseball should be yellow (which I think goes without saying, right?), you pointed out that there are literally thousands of different subjects and only 64 different accepted colors in a standard box of crayons. And I said, "yeah, but they use weird colors like ogre" and you said "I think you mean, ochre." Oooohh, somebody went to college. Yes, there might be a little confusion before all the major book publishers and libraries accept my system, but I think people will only appreciate books more if it's really, really hard to find them. Supply and Demand. They are already using my shelving system in the El Cerrito public libraries and I haven't received a single complaint, although technically I just implemented it last night after closing. I smell a patent.

Past Failed Attempts

You were the blonde in the crowded park at the base of Dolores Heights, aptly named Dolores Park, last Saturday. I was the guy who brought two dozen wet, friendly rats and sat back and watched as they made new friends. You, in a forward manner I am lately unaccustomed to, approached me and said loudly (did the giant styrofoam hands I was wearing on my ears make you think I have a hearing problem?) that you were going to alert the authorities. I assured you that I was in fact an authority and began lecturing on alternative theories on the evolution of life on the planet. Your look (a mix of curiosity and adoration?) encouraged me to begin digging a hole to the center of the earth to prove the existence of mole men. You said, what with the rats and throwing dirt, that I was ruining people's enjoyment of one of the few sunny days of the year. I said "What you talkin' 'bout Willis?" in a sultry voice, both to continue our flirtations and avoid arguing with you. After all, there were very few people left in the park whose days I could be ruining. Everyone must have left hurriedly for a late lunch or to catch Baywatch Hawaii. It's my favorite too.

You were the leggy blonde attorney in courtroom 302 at the Hall of Justice. I was the guy you selected to be on the jury. Perhaps you found my skintight canary yellow, spandex “Justice Man” bodysuit alluring? (Note to self: drying skintight yellow spandex bodysuits on “high” equals labored breathing and cramps the next time you wear them) During your opening statement you explained that the defendant was on trial for robbing a convenience store. I was the guy who said “what they have in store for him doesn’t sound too convenient” as I grabbed imaginary prison bars, and then turned to high-five my fellow jurors, only to be left totally hanging. They suck. I want new fellow jurors. You shot me a plaintive look as if to say, “the panda is woozy.” At this point I should note that I’m really, really bad at interpreting plaintive looks. My ex-wife even cited this in her divorce papers. Apparently, that’s how I “ruined” (her word, she’s soooo sensitive) her father’s funeral. You see it turns out that “just sit there quietly and don’t say a goddamn thing” and “please yodel like a howler monkey” are very, very close on the plaintive look scale. Who knew? Do I read minds? Don’t think I didn’t hear about that one on the ride home.

You were the blonde at the Giant’s game on Friday night. I was the guy sitting next to my sock puppet, Pepe. He was teaching the rules of the game to my son. Okay, technically it was your son, but you didn’t seem to be using him at the time. Pepe explained that each team is allowed four outs per inning. You started to say that each team is only allowed three outs, but then you saw the steely glare in Pepe’s button eyes and knew that it was best not to correct him. He’s a little sensitive about that stutter he developed after I accidentally left him in the dryer for three days (“it was like Nam, man”). Pepe insisted he'd said three and you two started arguing and then out of the blue you turned to me and asked me why I was being such a jerk. Whoa! Innocent bystander, lady. Pepe said “don’t drag him into this,” and then you flipped and screamed at him “you’re just a ducking clock” which really didn’t make much sense, but then again I had a head cold, so I maybe I didn’t hear you right. Whatever you said, Pepe was ticked. So he swallowed your necklace. You tried to pry his mouth open, but he had that cute little determined look he gets on his face after he’s had a few cocktails. He says it’s in a pawnshop on Market Street.

You were the sexy blonde changing in the locker room at 24 Hour Fitness last night. I was the guy with the video camera strapped to the ceiling fan. Probably should have anticipated the motion sickness. Sorry about that. Perhaps you remember me? You asked (pepper sprayed) what I was doing, and I explained that there had been a lot of items stolen from people’s lockers recently and management had hired me to do a little surveillance work. Okay, not technically “hired”, but that just seems to sound more professional than “shimmied through the heating duct." I also explained I was working undercover and would appreciate it if you’d stop hitting me the broom as that is usually a dead give away to others that there is a man with a video camera strapped to the ceiling fan. Trust me, I know these things. I still wake up screaming from that pińata incident in Lodi three years ago. A candy bar had fallen from my pocket. It was like Nam, man. But I digress. There’s a lot of thievery going on in women’s locker rooms and those women responsible need to be caught. And they need to spank me. That’s the only way they’ll ever learn.

You were the blonde on United flight 347 from Portland last Sunday. I was the guy sitting next to you. You mentioned you had slight fear of flying, and I tried to comfort you by explaining that statistically flying is much safer than driving a car, although when cars crash they don’t usually plummet 35,000 feet from the sky first. That would really suck if they did. Imagine the insurance rates. I also thought that since the previous 4 flights I’d been on had all crashed, the odds that it would happen a 5th straight time were astronomical. You asked what I did for a living, and I explained I converted Indian burial grounds into amusement parks. You’d be surprised how cheaply you can acquire the land. Can’t figure out why, but who am I to argue. You didn’t say much after that, just sat there with that death grip on your Bible as you rocked back and forth. I'm a WASP, is that a Catholic thing? I must say you have very strong hands, because every time I tried to borrow your Bible and replace it with that Amelia Earhart biography (you weren’t reading the Bible, you just seemed to need something to hold onto--I just wanted to check to see if one of the 12 Apostles really was named Hank), I couldn’t pry it loose.

You were the leggy blonde who was sun bathing in that park in Moraga. I was the guy who was feeding pigeons. You seemed surprised to see me. We were the only two people there. You thought my technique rather unusual, and I explained that pigeons don’t like to eat off the ground any more than we do. That’s why I have those itty-bitty porcelain plates about the size of a silver dollar (a real silver dollar, not that Susan B. Anthony, midget stop sign crap that to this day I don’t know what to do with). I think you thought the tiny forks and knives I duct taped to their wings when they were eating were pretty cute too. They don’t use them yet, but I’m a firm believer in Darwin, and think it’s just a matter of time. Not Charles Darwin, but his cousin Doug, who was doing fascinating work with duct tape, kitchen utensils, and small woodland creatures at the exact same time, but has been essentially lost to history. Anyway, you explained that we weren’t in a park, but rather your backyard, and you really didn’t appreciate the fact that I was arming the pigeons in the neighborhood and pointed out that your dog had refused to go outside for weeks, and your cat had developed a stutter. And I pulled out a city map and pointed out that, no, this was a park. And you pointed out that that was a map of Chicago, and I asked, “So what’s your point?