I thought that my newly acquired pseudo-St. Louis-fame* brought on by my performing on stage in fronts of huge crowds** every weekend would surely land me some dates. Alright, maybe that's pushing it - maybe a date. But no, apparently Funny is not hot, nor sexy, nor cute, nor prettified enough to make you wanna buy me some booze or even a large pretzel with or without the extra cheese. And here I was thinking that I could just slip into my wit and wear it around town like this year's new little black dress. I even had the perfect accessories lined up, a pair of sass-heels with a cynical true-isms capelet. I was all set to be wooed nightly by the masses. I even set up a waiting room just below my balcony so that the wooers-in-wait would be comfortable. And I do believe that my ticket counter is going to be delivered today. No, all the preparation is for naught. It would seem that all my Sharp Wit, near inability to be offended, and Sassmouth gets me is a ticket to the dudes' club. Sure, maybe a certain online test did proclaim me 60% dude and only 40% lady, but doesn't that simply mean that I am more fun for you to date because I'm more like you?
Nope. Obviously not.
*I once had a woman come up to me a bar to gush about how much she loved me when she saw our show a couple of weeks back. She hugged me, screamed about me, and made her husband touch me.***
** average about 10-20 people scattered throughout the theater.
***on the shoulder.