Girl, if you will let me be the man on your classcard, I will fill your days with ecstasy and your nights with still more ecstasy.
I will take you to the Spangler Food Court and I will buy you whatever you desire. Would you like a snack, my queen? Then I will buy you yogurt with fruit on the bottom. Rest those fine arms of yours-I will stir up the fruit for you until it is evenly distributed throughout the container. I will not disappoint you by leaving a big mass of sugary fruit on the bottom.
Would you also like a cup of coffee? Let me get it for you. No, my lady, I will not allow you to put those precious lips on styrofoam. Does a princess wear a burlap brassiere? No. At least I do not believe so. Either way, I will pour you a cup of coffee, and you will sip it out of the finest hand-crafted medieval goblet that was available at the Scranton Renaissance Fair last year.
What’s that you say? You need to make your way to class? No, don’t walk all that way, girl. Let me ease your burden. I will build a wagon for us to ride in. The wagon will be lined with exotic fabrics such as silk and felt. I will also genetically engineer a new race of mountain goats, bottle-feeding them from birth and treating them with the utmost respect so that they will produce the world’s most exquisite cashmere, which I will use to knit you a blanket so that you do not catch a chill while you ride in the wagon.
The wagon will also have a cupholder.
Who will pull the wagon, my beauty? I am glad you ask. We will be pulled by a team of Egyptian hairless cats and their veterinarians. While we ride, I will feed you grapes, carefully removing their skins beforehand so that you do not chip one of your beautiful pearly choppers.
Lean in close, girl. Let me whisper sexy thoughts to you in French. What’s that? Oh, you speak French, too? Yes, in fact, I was counting to 10, my darling. Am I making you hot?
While you are in class, I will lay at your side and wash your delicate feet using the feathers of endangered birds and a bottle of Prell. Then, I will dry off your feet with my chest hair. Just relax, woman, and let me do the work.
I love it when you raise your hand like that. Go on, say something to the class. I want to watch in awe as your gorgeous brain works its seductive thought-magic. If I was the man on your classcard, I’d let you talk to me for hours about your day, and then I’d massage your tired vocal cords all night with the finest scented oils from India and Bombay. The scent would be myrrh or pina colada.
I can’t take it anymore, girl. Let’s go back to SFP right now. I want to show you my Love Pantry and open up my cornucopia of passion.
No? OK. No problem.
At least let me take you out on the town tonight. I will arrive at your door wearing a pair of skin-tight Jordache jeans with a ribbed black sweater. When you answer your door, I will present you with a single perfect red rose. You will lift it to your precious nose and look at me with desire. Then I will have my Sherpa bring in an additional seventeen dozen red roses into your home. He will put them in water and, if you like, lift any heavy objects that may need lifting.
Then I will put on a Terence Trent D’Arby CD and I will sit close to you and hum the melody in your ear. As your pulse quickens with excitement, I will begin to dance erotically. Watch me move, feel the heat. No, girl, my jeans are not going to rip.
Your sensuous eyes will drink in my movements as if they were the world’s most expensive glass of white zinfandel. Yeah, I can sense that the moment is right now. One second, my dear, allow me to anoint my mouth with Binaca. I am overcome with love, I want to kiss your plush red lips and suck on them as if they were two elongated and fleshy cough drops.
Yeah, that’s what it would be like if I was your man, baby. I will serve you day and night, like a 24-hour McDonald’s that serves love instead of hamburgers. Just put my name on your classcard, girl, and I will deliver you unto ecstasy.
– That Guy
This column was an homage to (i.e., blatant rip-off of) The Onion’s Smoove B. Theft is the sincerest form of flattery. Send love letters to That Guy at firstname.lastname@example.org.
Reprinted from 10.20.2003