A few nights ago I leaned, elbows on bar, chin in hands, awaiting my Utopia, aka Long Island Ice Tea. I noted a man beaming across the bar with an expression parallel to a twenty-something male in a Carl's Jr. burger commercial, yearning for the newest addition to the heart attack menu. I squinted my eyes, attempting to assess if he was attractive. Though my eyesight is 20/400 in one eye and 20/FC in the other (I theorize FC stands for Fucked Completely, as in the eye exam I couldn't even read the one letter on the top line), my dated contacts assisted my eyes enough to ascertain I found him as sexually appealing as I did Sloth from The Goonies. I gleaned my glass from the bartender like it was my grandmother's wedding ring and joined my friends.
An hour later Beamer approached me. He placed his hand on my shoulder and softly asked in my ear, "Would you like a massage?"
"Would you like to be kicked in the balls?" was my gracious reply, sans smile.
Massage is code for sex. Any girl who doesn't accept this is clearly in denial, like Lisa Rinna over her age.
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