>>> The Strumpet's Trumpet
By staff writer Allison Parks
March 11, 2007

I have had it with you and your antics of desperation. Why can’t you obey me? *Wrapping your knuckles with a ruler*

So, you’ve already read “Knowing Your League in High School” and “Knowing Your League in College,” but those aren’t applicable to you. You’re a sophisticated post-college working woman, with your posh Isaac Mizrahi for Target business garments. You think you’re better than the high school goblins and college tramps. Well you’re not. Once again your metabolism has slowed to a crawl, your ass has expanded, and your expectations are even higher and more unrealistic.

Let me tell you something, troll. I know you think men should be attracted to you because you’re a seemingly well-functioning adult. Your apartment, life plan, running automobile, and suitable job do not make you more attractive. Those things make men attractive, not you. Let me tell you about a swinging gal with a fantastic job, an exquisite home, and large bank account. Janet Reno. Do you see men knocking down her door? No. They’re not coming to yours either. They are running in the opposite direction. Screaming. Crying. Lighting themselves on fire.

“I wanted to beat her about her soggy breasts with a copy of He’s Just Not That Into You.”

If your proper grown-up qualities are supposed to be so alluring, then why did Nicolas Cage marry the hostess at a crappy Korean restaurant who lived with her parents? Because he wanted a woman who could properly prepare a splendid dog meat supper. Just kidding! Because she’s a hot little Asian number who is thin and doesn’t behave desperately.

But I suppose you need a tale of inappropriate behavior to illustrate my point.

I had this pseudo-friend from college named Selma. Selma worked at some kind of office that sold toilet seat covers—Comfy Crappers or something, I really have no idea. She had a wealth of misplaced confidence and grizzly leg hair. Selma believed men should flock to her because of her position in life, and oddly, she was unfazed by her lack of gentleman callers. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that a Women’s Gender Studies degree did not overshadow her bushy mustache in the eyes of a potential suitor. Additionally, her shabby-chic Target furnished apartment did not make up for her drooping arm flesh that flapped in the wind like the majestic stars and stripes.

Sometimes, back in the days when I could still stand her, we’d get a drink at a bar near her office.

“I think I’m going to make a move on Drake at the Christmas party,” she’d say to me, her mustache glistening in the late afternoon sun. Drake was a handsome, slightly senior co-worker. I could picture the poor man forcibly straddled on the copy machine by Selma, who while wearing a mistletoe headband, appeared strikingly reminiscent to an irate bear in a When Animals Attack video.

“Oh, has there been an office flirtation?” I asked, struggling to feign interest.

“We go to lunch sometimes, in a group, but still… I’m going to make the first move. You can’t trust a man to do anything, ya know?” I wanted to say, “You mean, you can’t trust him to climb up your fleshy arm flaps into your castle bedroom as in your romance-novel-esque day dreams?”

In lieu of such cruelty, I asked, “Do you think it’s a good idea to get involved with a co-worker? You shouldn’t make plop plops where you eat.”

“Yeah… well,” said Selma, ignoring my question entirely, “he has a girlfriend, I think, but whatever, I don’t know for sure. I like him, and I’m sure he likes me, but doesn’t want to ruin our friendship.”

Oh, lord, why? Yes Selma, he’s going to leave his girlfriend to lie in a bubble bath with you surrounded by candles, listen to Sade, and shampoo your wooly legs.

I wanted to beat her about her soggy breasts with a copy of He’s Just Not That Into You, but instead sucked down the remainder of my drink and fled the bar before she had time to launch into a feminist rant.

Selma called me the next day. “So, I asked him out,” followed by a long pause.

“And? What happened to the Christmas party move making?” I inquired.

“I didn’t want to wait. He said he’s seeing someone,” Selma said angrily, and went on to tell me that she spent the entire day MyStalking[i] Drake’s girlfriend and forwarded me her MySpace page.

“She’s 19!” exclaimed Selma furiously. “She’s in college, and she doesn’t even have a job! Whatever, Drake can’t handle a strong woman. I hate blondes! No offense. What does he see in her?”

I don’t know, Selma, perhaps the absence of a mustache and rage issues? Maybe she shaves her legs and wears makeup? Could it be that she has two eyebrows, rather than one bushy caterpillar draped across her forehead? I quickly clicked on “the other woman’s” MySpace. She was a very cute, tiny little blonde, not unlike the Skipper doll. I got off the phone as quickly as possible, but Selma called me later that night.

“I sent her a message,” Selma said wickedly.

“What? Why? What did it say?” I asked, contemplating a phone call to the authorities.

“Just that she should keep an eye on her man ‘cause he’s very flirty with me.” Selma cackled.

Over the next few months Selma started sending Drake and “Skipper” frightening emails about her empowered womanhood. She slid further into the depths of insanity and I spoke to her less and less. Drake eventually sent her emails to Human Recourses and she was not only fired, but escorted out by security while the entire Comfy Crappers Empire watched.

Moral of the Story: Grooming and non-desperation are still vital when finding a mate, even with your lucrative administrative assistant position and Martha Stewart for K-Mart brand dish towels. And don’t shit where you sell shitter supplies.


[i] MyStalking: Excessive viewing of a person’s MySpace page and their friend’s pages.

See new PIC posts via Twitter or Facebook.

Sign up for satire writing or improv classes at The Second City - 10% off with code PIC.