Why We Suck_ A Feel Good Guide to Staying Fat, Loud, Lazy and Stupid - Denis Leary [84]
Which brings up another difference between the sexes. Paul was sixty-something years old, a multibillionaire and incredibly famous when he and Heather hooked up. She was thirty-three and had eight cents in her plastic foot. And claimed she was "in love." Uh-huh. Why is it young chicks-bipeds or single-wheeled-never fall "in love" with sixty-four-year-old janitors. Or hobos?
Would Donald Trump have had such a parade of young pussy pass through Trump Tower over the last five decades if he didn't OWN the fucking thing? Are women at least half his age really that attracted to fourteen strands of dyed blond hair that are teased and tickled and duct-taped into submission until they somehow form a semi-circle of bangs that swoop down like a hair hawk across his forehead before ending up in a nest just above his coat collar?
And the answer is? No. It's the buildings, stupid.
Name the last man in his early thirties or late twenties that you know of who married a rich woman at least twice his age?
Need more time? Go ahead.
Here it is-Donald Trump's first wife, Ivana-listed at sixty years old but you can add a good four or five years to that-and her thirty-six hairgellin'-megaMetro-sexual-year-old ьber-Euro-trash-boyfriend Rossano Rubicondi. You make up your own jokes about this union, his name and his motivations and please feel free to insert them right here.
Because guys can't do it. Unless they're gay and there's no sex involved. Ashton Kutcher and Demi Moore is the closest we can come. She was forty-two and he was twenty-seven when they fell in love. That's a difference of only fifteen years. And they may both be fine with it three years later, even as I write this.
But two decades from now-when the kabbalah bracelets and the Botox both stop working their magic, she needs new tits again AND a hip replacement and he's about to hit fifty with a bald spot or two-let's see how much resistance he has when Jessica Alba's daughter is hitting on him during the shooting of Dude, Where's My Car Part Seven.
Straight men don't dance, remember birthdays or marry chicks with hearing aids.
We also don't date women who are on death row, which is another compartment in The Female Brain. If you are a guy and you kill your parents or a stranger or your ex-wife or just snap like a twig and take out thirteen of your co-workers-and society decides not to turn you into a human sloppy joe strapped to an electric chair-women will flock to visit you. It happens time and time again. A guy gets life behind bars and the fan mail flounders in. Pretty soon some buxom chick from Biloxi or a local cookbook author from Columbus is getting hitched to a guy she will only be able to have sex with in a five-foot-wide metal trailer once a month for fifteen minutes. Why? I guess because they know where you are. And you love them. They can tell by all the wonderful sweet nothings you write in your letters, which you are only writing because you don't have access to porn (and she sent you a Polaroid of her tits). And she knows you won't cheat on her-unless it's with Mack the Truck from Cellblock B-whose tits might be bigger but have a shitload of hair on them.
This plan would never work for guys. If Brad Pitt had met Angelina Jolie through an exchange of letters while she was assigned to a Federal Penitentiary for her next nine lives-he may have gone to see her in the trailer twice. MAYBE three times.
After that-just too long of a drive.
Two and a half hours there, five minutes of sex, ten minutes of whining about how much the system sucks and how the guards are all talking about her behind her back and how her mother won't stop telling her how she threw her life away and blah blubbedy I'm thinking of getting your face tattooed on my ass but first I have to have Billy Bob's name erased and do you think the fact that I could fit both his first names on my ass means my ass is too big and blub I wanna adopt my Nigerian cellmate blib and then the bell goes off ending