Dumber than a squashed zucchini (part III)
Good ol' Bob had managed to find himself a girlfriend. Unfortunately, I found out about the relationship in a most tasteless manner. . . I was hosting a dinner party for two other couples at my house and was about to serve the chocolate eclair dessert when my pager went off. I checked the number and groaned. Bob. ( I have his home, cell, and work numbers memorized because of all the calls I'd received about his low cholesterol diet.) Knowing he would keep me on the phone a good fifteen minutes, I served the dessert and left my husband to host our guests.
"Bob, how can I help you?" I asked, expecting another inane question about fat grams.
"Uhhh, Dr. Burbank? My lady friend wants to ask you a question."
He must have handed her the phone because the next thing I hear is the deep gravelly voice of a chain smoker. Mincing no words she went straight for the jugular: "What's wrong with this guy?"
"I beg your pardon? What do you mean?" (I know he's dumb, but I couldn't tell her that with him standing right there listening in.)
"I mean, he can't get it up."
Hmmm. Must be Bob did suffer I-M-P-O-T-E-N-C-Y. (Or if he didn't before, he sure would with this insensitive broad.)
She continued her rant. "We met at the bar tonight and he seemed like a nice enough guy so I invited him to my apartment. But he's totally limp. Flaccid. Can't do squat. I want you to fix him or I ain't got no use for him."
Isn't she a charmer. Bob sure knew how to pick 'em.
Since I knew from his recent physical that he didn't normally have ED issues, I concluded this woman's demeaning and demanding approach would render any man impotent. I then gave a short dissertation on performance anxiety and the effects of stress on men blah, blah, blah. I informed her it sometimes took men time to feel comfortable with a new partner and they needed to know her well enough to relax.
"We've already been at it two hours," she sputtered. "How much more time does he need?"
I rolled my eyes. Even a hooker would show more tact.
He must have taken the phone back from her because the next voice I hear is Bob's. "I think you're right, Dr. Burbank. I ain't never had no trouble with the ladies before, but I think this woman being twenty-five years older than me is kinda weirding me out. I mean, she don't look that bad for an old woman. . . she's saggy and wrinkled but probably no worse than any other woman pushing seventy. . ."
Hard to tell which of them most needed sensitivity training. I felt like telling her, "Look lady, he's dumber than a squashed zucchini. You don't want him!" And I felt like telling Bob, " She doesn't care two cents about you. She's a slutty old sleazebag who just wants sex. Be grateful your impotent or she'd probably be transmiting an STD right now!"
Instead, I point out that the relationship didn't seem to be working out for either of them and perhaps they should accept that and call it a night. They both agreed and ended the call.
I hung up the phone and shook my head, still in shock. When did I become Dr. Joyce Brothers, dishing out sex therapy?
On a positive note, the thought of the two of them in bed together sickened me so much I ate far less chocolate eclair dessert than I normally would have.