Mack the Knife

I am no man’s fool.

Just ignore the motley colors and the little bells.

But I have been a fool for many women, which has been pointed out to me as an interesting flaw. At least, depending on what side of the story you’re on.

Case in point: This past weekend, I took a particularly attractive girl-friend (i.e. friend who is female, not to be confused with anything else, EVER . . . or so I was instructed to say) to breakfast. I had a ham and cheese omelet with biscuits and gravy (you may have heard my arteries slamming shut around 9a.m.). At some point, the date of my birthday came into question, and with the much-practiced delivery, as will often be heard upon the subject, I replied: “February 31st.”

Now, it’s not so much that I don’t like to get older. My palm hasn’t started flashing red, and so that’s yet to prove an issue. It’s just a matter that . . . well . . . I seem to be particularly hard to buy for. People are forever asking me what I want, and how do you say, “1956 cherry-red convertible Corvette,” without sounding greedy?

If you figure it out, let me know.

Better yet, if you wish to show your faith and devotion to me, or even that you're willing to tolerate my pressence for short periods of time, just go ahead and have it shipped to my condo.

I've thus taken to requesting, when asked, for socks. They're simple, they're hard to get wrong, almost any color will do, and you truly can never have too many socks. I seem to burn through socks pretty quick, probably because of my running, kick boxing, and propensity for making sock-puppets who have traumatic experiences with fire.

But in regards to giving out the date, and thus pushing for the obvious next question of "What do you want?" I prefer to go quietly into that good night. If at all possible I don’t bring up my birthday. I shy away from, or otherwise change the topic with all due haste.

It worked like a charm last year, in which only my parents, who are required by law, remembered.

Ahhh, the genius of silence. So pure, so golden, so . . . easy.

But I digress.

So my friend, sitting across the table from me, not entirely certain of the joke that I had just laid out, gave me a look. That happens a lot with my jokes. They are either too subtle or too stupid to be gotten. Usually, too stupid.

I, however, always laugh!

And this, for you dumb men out there (which is pretty much a redundant statement), is the wrong thing to do, no matter what.

I did laugh and then the jig was up. But even with that battle lost, the war was still on.

But how does one procure such information when the procure-ee doesn’t wish it to be procured (conjugating is fun!). I’ve been trained by the best. I can be as deaf and dumb as any man watching television. I just flip the switch and I'm good to go.

But my friend is cunning. She’s lulled me into a false sense of security by constantly playing a sweet and innocent character to the hilt. She attends church regularly, avoids drinking and smoking, and for the life of me I can’t imagine why she should eat breakfast with me. But she did, and so at the time she simply inquired into the Palm Pilot in my day-planner. Completely oblivious to the obvious (why not impress her with my state-of-the-art technology planning system?!?), I passed the planner over so she could get a better look.

And there lies the rub.

My day-planner. The same one that contains my checks, my credit cards, and all my various forms of identification including my driver's license.

If you’ve never seen a shark smile, well: “The shark has pretty teeth dear / And [she] shows 'em pearly white.”

And boy did she ever.

Now, I’m ok with losing. I’ve been a loser for years. You have to go with what you are good at.

But this wasn’t just losing. This was being outsmarted by the obvious. Something you would think my many hours at mastering Free Cell would have trained me against.

But Free Cell has no practical applications in the real world (unless aliens attack and can only be defeated via moving cards from one pile to another).

And that stings, baby.

Stings the fragile male ego of which mine has a glass jaw, a weak heart and is allergic to everything. In the end, it’s not as bad as all that.

But she followed her victory with, “So what do you want?”

“Socks, please.”