Ma ma ma my Madonna.

You can't make no wife out of a whore...



Believe me. I've tried. Five dead would-be-cuckholders and six maxed out credit cards later, I have a story to tell:

"You want her raising your kids?"
"Well, I think that... ha ha, no. Hell no."
"I mean, wasn't it you who was just telling me not to date a girl with pink hair?"
"Her hair is pink and purple."
"You bitch, you get my point."

And I did. My friend was right. I should have known from the start that Dove was going to be trouble. It was something... some hidden je ne sais quois that I saw deep, deep in her eyes that first night I met her as she was giving me head in her car, her pink and purple hair bobbing in the moonlight.

But what was it? Who knows, some shit with her daddy, probably, that's how it always is.

But what the hell is wrong with me? What would compel an otherwise smart guy to think that he could "fix" this poor fallen angel? That I can answer definitively: it was the pink and purple hair bobbing in the moonlight.

Guys don't want to choose between Madonna and Whore, they want their Madonna to be their own private whore.

Women, in chorus: "YEAH TYPICAL, FFNNN!"

Me, flanged, with echos: "SHUTt ITt YAa HO'Z z z z z!"

What's wrong with wanting a woman who is adventurous and fun behind closed doors?

Nothing.

Now, how do you get such a woman?

OK... So this may seem really really obvious to most of you, but you do it by gaining the trust of Madonna, and slowly coaxing her into freek-acts. Loving freek-acts. OK, fine, ladies, loving romantic freek-acts.

Sounds like work?

NOT NEARLY AS MUCH WORK AS TRYING TO TRAIN A CHICK ALREADY VERSED IN THE FREEKIC ARTS TO BE A GOOD CONSCIENTIOUS SANE MEMBER OF A STABLE RELATIONSHIP WHO WOULD PLAY BY ANY OF ITS RULES, EVER.

Women, in chorus: "WE COULD HAVE TOLD YOU THAT!"
Me, wah-wah pedal and overdrive: "I DON'T RECALL HIRING ANY OF YOU BITCHES."

But.. the Women are right: Why would I try that? Laziness, in a word. I didn't want to put my crotch on ice long enough to wait out the abstinence storm that would go along with courting a Madonna.

What a fool, this man, me. To burn years attempting the impossible, for aversion to braving months of the merely difficult.

When I find myself in a position... or, rather, in the position to give it to a ho, I hear my ancestors for the last several billion years all singing in unison the Natural Selection Theme Song:

Verse: DO IT DO IT DO IT DO IT DO IT DO IT.
Chorus: DO IT DO IT DO IT DO IT DO IT DO IT.
Verse 2: DO IT DO IT DO IT DO IT DO IT DO IT.
Repeat Chorus.
("Natural Selection Theme Song" ©1987 Too $hort, BMI)

And mixed in with this grunting choir of lust is the still, small voice of a lone angel, whispering, "The saints weep for you, our Benjamin."

I pretend I don't know what the angel is saying, like the time I pretended I didn't know what my dad was saying when he came to get me from the punk club I had snuck-out to when I was 14: "What? What? I can't hear you, it's the music, it's too loud!"

My laziness has cost me in time, money, and on occasion, blood.

I have, of late, decided to commit myself to not being an idiot, and towards that end I have taken my own personal vows of monkdom:

Gro Thy Fro
Lay Lo
Do what Thou Kno
Say NO to The Hos



Ave Maria, Salve Regina.