My best German in the whole world

Constipated would be the word. Emotionally constipated. Don’t get me wrong, I love the guy, he’s my best German in the whole world. Except for Ms. CoCo, which is a different story. But I can’t help imagining the struggle that goes on inside him to keep it all under control. Take women for example. He takes women often. As examples. He can’t take them in any other way, because that would be using them as objects. Objects don’t object. It would really be easier if women were objects. Stop that thought! Too late? Now that you let it through, do something good. Like listen to one telling you about her day. Pay attention. Supermarket dramas are interesting. They were out of lady’s shaving cream? Oh no. See, it helps. You no longer want her to be an object. Drive the conversation discreetly towards tampons and you’re all set. Suddenly her intellectual side will come shining through. Like cold water on a night swim. Even if it doesn’t, you still don’t stand a chance. Listening only turns you into the best friend. Best friends you already have and you very rarely if ever think of throwing them onto the kitchen table and treating them as objects. So listening is not the way. You could try talking. Mention kids. A family. A car for her and a Porsche for you. A second house. All the white sheets routine. That should land you a five-to-nine type. Meaning it will take between five to nine sacrifices to the gods before she goes down on you. Timidly, but forever loyal. Which will easily get you right back where you first started, looking for an object. So talking doesn’t work either. Being deprived of these two options leads to constipation.

Secret to a healthy life: some of us like the object thing. And we’re quite good at it too. From nine to five. All night through. Respect is for daytime…