Human Shield

Dear Older, Respectable-Looking Lady on Sixth Avenue:
Thank you for being on the sidewalk at the same time as I as we passed the obnoxiously long line-up of lunching construction workers, backs against the building, asses parked on the ground, so their eyes could hungrily feast on passing asses. Thank you, further, for being on the side closer to them, and for strolling at the same pace as I, thus serving as an unwitting barrier and shield from the leers I am cocky enough to think I not only warrant but surely would have received in your absence.

0 thoughts on “Human Shield

  1. A highly entertaining tale, but I would like to include it in my new Internet Reality Show… “Big Non-Fat Soy Liars”…
    You see, here’s the rub (and you’ll get the pun of that little gem soon enough.)
    I have no doubt you two intraveiniously (sp?) gorged yourselves on rarified forms of the purest caffeine. I have no doubt you stumbled upon a nicely dressed woman in a plexiglass case (It is Christmas in New York afterall.) I have no doubt that you had the hutzpah to not fall fo rthe slight of mind trick the apprentice TV-magic producer put before you. I have no doubt you reveled in that. I also have no doubt you saw Cynthia Nixon cutting something with an overly large pair of scissors (Actors and actresses always look bigger on TV. If you gave a regular pair of shears to Cynthia Nixon, who in reality is 3 foot 2 inches tall, they’d look like carpet shears.)
    So… you ask, “Where is the Big Non-Fat Soy Lie?”
    Quite simple.
    “Ijust wanted to go inside and show Mrs. Z the two enormous Botero sculptures on the ground floor, rotund nudes, one of each sex, the male of which has had his bronze boyness touched by so many hands (that no doubt thought they were being original and naughty) that it now shines gold.”
    There is NO way Jodi would ever pass up a solid gold phallus. Newp. Not gonna happen. Wouldn’t be prudent at this juncture.
    So there you have it, Alex. The Big Nonfat Soy Latte Lie. Where’s my prize Mr. Trebek?

  2. And to you, loudmouth lout with ill-fitting suit (and you know who you are), you said, “Do you think Cynthia Nixon will take a picture with me?” and we said, “Yes, she seems very nice.” You grumbled, “She needs me more than I need her.” What’s up with that?
    Call me!

  3. Ds: Okay, all right. So you caught me red-handed. Or is that bronze-handed. Or gold-fingered. I am singlehandedly responsible for the burnishing of the male statue’s boyness. At long last, the truth comes out.
    Mrs. Z: Yes, and it was at that moment that you fell hopelessly and helplessly in love with “Morty”, as of course you know we dubbed your puerile prince. Never mind the perfect torso, teeth, and hair of Anderson Cooper/Richard Gere. “Your” guy was the real winner!

  4. Jodi,
    I am just wondering, and by that I mean this is only a mental exercise, but if you (meaning: if one) touched my bronzed boyness for a long period of time, would it somehow transform into golden manness?
    Just speculation, mind you.

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