Things I've Learned From Women Who've Dumped Me - Ben Karlin [8]
I have even occasionally been a leading man. Well, that is to say, I have been the lead character in a number of television shows. That they are all no longer on the air could be seen as evidence of a mass rejection of me, but I know that it’s much more complicated than that. (So many factors contribute to the demise of a show that I can’t explore them all here: for the sake of space, let’s just boil it down to its essence and say that many of the men and women who run our television networks are gutless cunts.)
No, I have come to believe that people generally seem to like me. I don’t think of myself as the sexual untouchable that I once did, although there is actual scientific data showing that men like me better than women. And I like me, too, so I will keep plugging away, fueled by the belief that people will actually pay money to see me, to accept me just as I am.
Although, of course, it wouldn’t hurt to drop a few pounds. It almost never does.
Lesson#3
Beware of Math Tutors Who Ride Motorcycles
by Will Forte
Her name was Michelle and she was my first serious girlfriend. We had met at a fraternity party one night and somehow, during the course of that evening—aided no doubt by generous portions of cheap beer—I tricked her into liking me. That first meeting turned into a first date and then another date and then soon, she and I were boyfriend and girlfriend. How had I lucked into this? I was dating an attractive woman who didn’t care that I dressed like a slob and had a bowl cut and drank myself into oblivion every third night. It was paradise.
One weekend, I went up to Lake Tahoe for a ski race. After a day of getting my ass handed to me by superior ski racers, I was in a bit of a funk—and there was only one person who could cheer me up: my beloved Michelle. As this was pre–cell phone and the rotary phone at our condo was locked, I convinced the team to drive by the local grocery store pay phone. My call went to her answering machine, but that was okay—I had a plan. I offered Michelle three different times to wait by the phone for a call from me later—8:00, 10:00, and midnight. Satisfied, I jumped in the van and took off for dinner.
After dinner, I convinced the team to swing by the grocery store again. I called Michelle at 8:00 on the nose and once again got her answering machine. No big deal. She was probably at dinner or something. With two-thirds of my calling options still available, I hopped back into the van and headed back to the condo.
I returned to the pay phone at exactly 10:00, dialed Michelle’s number, and once again got her answering machine. Again, no big deal. In fact, I should have seen it coming. 10:00? Michelle wouldn’t pick 10:00. She’d pick midnight, for sure. She’d want my voice to be the last thing she heard before she went to sleep and dreamed sweet dreams of the two of us sharing our lives together. What a romantic! I walked away from the pay phone, smiling.
By midnight, everyone was pretty drunk. Everyone except me. I mean, somebody had to stay sober enough to drive me to the pay phone. Eventually, a few ski teamers figured out the reason for my sobriety and I caught a considerable amount of shit for it. The general consensus was that “Forte’s pussywhipped!”—a charge I vehemently denied. But deep inside, I knew they were right.
I got to the pay phone at 11:50, had a ten-minute fake phone conversation to fend off any would-be phone users, then finally at midnight, jammed my quarters into the coin slot and dialed. “Ring . . . ring . . . ring . . . ring . . .”
“Hi . . .”
“Michelle?”
“. . . this is Michelle. Leave your name and number at the beep.” Beep.
Fuck. She must be down the hall in the bathroom or something. I hung up and tried again. Again, answering machine. I hung up and waited for five minutes. Again, answering machine. Shit, was she okay? Should I call her parents?