|Oh, like a little alien dog collar is gonna stop Da-da. (Note: see Uhura laughing?)|
Da-da finds the following almost unbelievable. In the one hour he has to himself once in a while, he was standing in line for a cup of coffee within earshot of two single 20-something, expensively appointed Marketing Amazons chatting loudly about how they had it all -- all, that is, except a "trophy da-da," or Mr. Mom, to raise their future broods. One jokingly said she'd put a, "collar of obedience" on her future Y-chromosomer, "if all the men I meet weren't all such spastic nerf-bags already. That [expletive] guy, Atticus?" she said, "he cries at the drop of a hat, [expletive expletive]."
"If only Django could cook," said the other, "but he's just not marriageable. Too many nasty habits. He did put a tampon in for me the other day..."
"God, I'll SO need someone to raise my kids for me -- if I ever have them."
"You need to get yourself on a baby schedule."
The hirsute javanarian clerk behind the counter was also listening. He happened to know A Man Called Da-da a little, as he sees him every now and again. He pointed at Da-da, who stood caught in the snide.
"Ladies? See that guy there?" The Power Amazons looked, clearly unimpressed with Da-da's shaggy exterior and wildeye-haggard. "He's an author, an artist, a great cook, and a full-time Mr. Mom. You should hit him up for some advice."
The Power Amazons stood there a beat, staring.
"We could always become lesbians," one said and they laughed, walking $7 cups of coffee to their black and silver Mercedes, respectively.
Yeah, well... the joke's on you, Amazons. Da-da's also a CYBORG.
|Oh, man. Da-da just got tagged. Anyone got a hanky?|