....Goes Looking For Lurve

'Don't Hassel me.'
- an angry e-mail reply in response to the
'Merry Christmas from "the Hoff" ' David Hasselhoff
card I sent and also how most girls greet me as.....

Fatman Goes Looking For Love
(Brought to you by 20/20 Hindsight)

What's the hairy man carrying in his sack mummy?

At around the same time that most kids at school
were losing their virginity and touching each other in
their "rude bits" young Fatman spent most of his time
collecting comic books. It has been a whopping decade
since those times of yore (When people wore happy
pants and Hypercolor t-shirts
whilst listening to Milli Vanilli- remember them?) and
about the only thing that has changed is I seem to
have less money to buy comics. The usually suave,
James Bond-like person that I'm sure you'd all agree I
am, disappears when I'm around pretty girls. Let us
take a look at last night:

(zero-6 beer personality) It's fairly rare that I'm
interested in women at this stage of the evening. The
part of the male brain that seeks to repopulate the
world like an NBA basketballer, the French monarchy
(circa 1700s) or Screamin' Jay
Hawkins (may he rest in peace) lies pretty dormant
far, far in the depths of my loins. It would take
someone like the lesbian girl from Neighbours for me
to even lurch into action. But my brain seizes up.
It's the flustered, stammering, sweat dribbling,
English-becomes-my-second-language, I-Tarzan-You-Jane,
forgets punchline of jokes kind of phase.

(a hypothetical situation)
Lesbian girl from Neighbours: Hi!
Me: (bites tongue almost in half)Hrragrgr!!!
Lesbian girl from Neighbours: Are you alright?
Me: (blood dribbling down shirt) Argharghle.

and so on and so forth...

When the beers increase so does the lust. It's around
the eight to ten beer mark when I decide it'd be the
time for love...which is unfortunate because I
generally transform into the most unlovable creature
on the planet. Gone is the awkward mumbling. It is
replaced by pure, stainless steel arrogance. An
arrogance that demands women to return to the cave and
iron shirts . And it is at this juncture that the
human reincarnation of Pepe LePew decides to make his
moves on Theresa and Hannah- sisters who I strongly
suspect will never return to a certain bar located in
Flinders Lane.

Pepe Le Pew (a.k.a. me): Howwareyagirlls?
Theresa: I'm fine we're....
Me: (Interrupts) Thass great. Thass great. Shots! I'm
buying shots and we're all drinkin'!

Lesh geddawt of dese wet clothes and into (BURP) a dry Martini!

You'd think that I would think that since the girls
moved several times in the evening and paid an entire
rugby team to hinder my approach that I'd get the
hint. Alas, such is the power of drink.

Mmmmmm. Icy Dead People,
Fatman