*** Readers who don’t like catty folks should close their browser now—as the following is a bit of a male-meow-moody-moment. ***

Sadly, my son and I had to do the mall-crawl this evening. He is growing so very fast that he is passing through his clothing before he fully rips the knees out of his jeans—which is phast as phuck for a testosterone-driven-youth.

I am such a human as hates malls.

Further, I am not happy about shopping in general, unless it is for technology or grocery-stuffs or haggling over a major purchase. I actually never try on clothing. If it doesn’t fit, I probably don’t return it… But that is deeply rare as I am a simple sort and almost always manage to get the same types O’ things. Except that those assholes at Structure got rid of my favorite boxers. This is what is known in New England Parlance as a wicked-pisser. I am still foraging by doing mail-order-testing of a single pair from various Internet underwear suppliers. No luck yet. Nothing feels right around the gonad region. So I am wearing out the old Structure units. At least I wear them these days, as from puberty through my early twenties, I couldn’t stand the prospect. But enough about my unmentionable-clothing needs.

Anyway, I got sideways on the topic as a result of HAVING to tell you WHY I was at a mall. Clearly, I am also the type who has to explain his raison’d-shopping-mecca. Which should tell you quite a bit about DaPersonality O’ DaSauce.

So.

My son.

He pulls in the fairer sex like some sort of five-year-old ginger-haired-Clooney.

Tonight we had, five (count ‘em) five, OVERLY/OVERTLY LENGTHY encounters with gals who were so enamored of him that they even thought that my dumb ass™ including my slight belly-of-the-Buddha, and cinderblock-sized skull, sophomoric-perspective, and all—was of interest.

Bad. Wrong. Not-good.

You see:

This would be incredibly-swell-and-fine if not for a couple of things.

1. He seems to call to the Blonds of the World. [And your diarist—while a long-time serial monogamist—has slept with a fair number of young female persons and not one of them has been blond. Well. Not naturally so. You see, I believe I have what is technically called Dabrunettes attract DaSauce gene. This by the way is a fair number by MALE standards…not like the female pals I have—actually—as the number is in the mid-teens, not the upper 80’s (and some near-friends have done more than that for a living…but how I know a number of sex-industry-persons should be another day and another time.]

2. Worse, (as I could forgive the blond thing if she were a wonder and a joy and could give my noggin a woody--as well as the rest of me) he pulls in the AnaFans (locally known as Auschwitz-Diet-Types) who are augmented and have Nancy Reagan necks. Yes. Lollypop-heads. All of them. The Flockharts, the Spears-types, the Ack-U-Lara’s, the Boyles (even though she is a brunette,) the Gellers, and on. [Full-Body-Shudder]

Now. That isn’t to say that these folks aren’t swell. I don't KNOW them, and I wouldn’t have a clue. Maybe each and every one of them is a total gem, and as magically attractive-inside as Jennifer Connelly was on the outside before she became a lollypop-head.

But my kid has it all wrong. He gets the Toe-Headed Tiffany/Alexis/Sierra-style-folks and draws them in like a pied piper would call rats. They all have nipples pointing in weird NE/SW configurations and gravity is never allowed in the vicinity of their bust lines. If they are over 25—they have injected neurotoxins that are still favored-over-Anthrax-in-past-and-future-chemical-warfare into THEIR OWN FRIGGING BODIES! On purpose and after having paid someone for the goods?!?

O’ baby! Bring on the Clostridium Botulinum bacteria!

My ‘nads shrivel and wanna crawl into my hipbone at that prospect alone.

Couldn’t he just once or twice—attract a nice, relatively sane, moderate-intoxicants-at-maximum, smart, witty-mouthed, swivel-hipped, darker-haired, normal-to-attractive individual with natural teats—large or small?

I’d be good.

I would.

I’d bring all kinds of interesting things to the party. And I’m even told I’m a great kisser with nice big soft lips for a white boy.

Please?

Pretty please without Lollypops on top?

--DaCattySauce

PS. The previous content was channeled by the-guy-hiding-inside-me-who-is-willing-to-consider-a-relationship-at-this-juncture. I’ve just thrown his arse out for a decade or so. Continue with your evening. Thank you for your patience. Control is regained. Nothing left to see. Move along quietly and gently--especially if you are a nice-brunette-person. He should be back in his box by now.