Feb 18 2005


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“Wokachika, wokachika, wokachika!” Greg was yammering in the kitchen as he spread peanut butter on his english muffin. “Who’s the black private dick who’s a sex machine to all the chicks? Shaft! You daaaamn right!”

“Oh please,” said Brigid. “Lord, spare us all.”

“Oh now what?” said Greg.

“Listen to you! Seriously, how many women have you ever met who had the least bit of interest in a sex machine?”

“Counting you?” Greg asked. He looked at the ceiling, apparently doing mental figuring. “Lessee … erm … none, actually.”

“Exactly! Women don’t want a sex machine, that’s just stupid.”

“It’s a funk tune from the ’70s,” Greg said. “You’re taking it very personally.”

“It’s irritating!” she protested. “No woman would ever be impressed by the assertion that he’s a sex machine. That’s just men beating their chests at each other. Don’t be a sex machine.”

“Okay, I won’t,” said Greg, returning to his english muffin. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a black private dick, either.”

Brigid took one of the muffin slices. “Well, that’s another strike against you. But we won’t get into that right now.”

He blinked at her retreating form, trying to decide if she was really insane or just pretending she was to annoy him.

-The Gneech

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