Rated R (for Radical)

Um … Sure. 

The Mary crazy of Reno is totally a hot mom-to-be and has dozens of admirers who probably haven’t met her in person and don’t know that her eyes might be locked into a loving stare of solidarity but her mind is fixated on the wrinkle in your necktie. 

The waiter is the first to notice this when Mary sends back a fork and then another and this poor guy has to actually open a box of “fine silver from Schaborgen”, and cut the box open because his arms are not strong enough to pull apart vacuum protecto wrap. Yeah, this gorgeous lady wipes the brand-new fork and gently smiles as the eyeball of her salmon has been removed. She grits her teeth because there’s nothing more fun than flicking a salmon eye and counting how many minutes it takes for the management to notice that they have fish eyes on their floor, the red carpet must be dirty! Dirty! Ahhahahahahahahahah

We don’t stay for cake. 

And Mary says “My it’s very cold,” and nestles into the beautiful walking arm that has Right Guard, not that silly Axe Spray, and she pays no compliment to the smell of masculine hygiene. I see the ocean of Reno, someone’s dirty pool lapping in the wind, I point to where her dinner might have come from and she is so charmed by the dark waters and ignores the kid’s floating body. We head back in my rental car, cause I’m not spending five damn hours to DETAIL for any lady. I’m hoping she gives me a false address (you know for security) because this slabby old Victorian needs new gutters and the paint is peeling off suredly. 

The little man parts of the brain say, “I’m not doing that” as they look at the tremendous weeds growing around her headstones in the garden. I mean this is a place where frogs would fear croaking, algae just wants to fly away and the birds have designated the parcel a no-fly or no-plopping zone because the buckshot is ready in the shotgun. 

We are at the creaky gate, semi-gray if the sun would shine, this Mary dips her neck as she runs to get out of the way, but IT’s TOO LATE, I already grab her hand and smooch smooch up to the third liver spot like Gomer Adams. Yeah. I shake my head with the wind whistling through my famous gap, the hair is all oiled back like someone who loves spaghetti. I do I do I do. 

That’s not the last time I’m gonna try to date a Christian Girl because it has been decided by the fates, by the Oracle of Omaha, by the might of the weirding ways that I should convert this lass just as soon as I kill the rest of her suitors. 

—

Now there is the ‘poison pill’ method of dating. When a man fears another man is sniffing in his space, he goes over and sneaks in a little unfermented bean curd, maybe some spoiled cream into the after-sex coffee. He must be vigilant and choose his target wisely. 

Since men have had the rude cacophony of indigestion for years and have taken to the ‘silent form’ of dating, which is sometimes noise-proof underwear, carbon-fiber mesh, Hell, my uncle would actually put a book in his pants, you know, in case the Keopectate wasn’t working. For these reasons, it is best to attack the bride. 

That’s right. 

If that woman rips a thunderous clap of beetlejuice on a two-hundred-dollar date and he don’t get up and excuse himself, then he’s not a real gentleman. Queefs and farts always come in threes, like Hollywood deaths, it's a trinity, especially for them religious types who like threes. 

Now, if the perversion of the gastro-intelligence should fail to take out one or two of the players – Here’s where a fella must really get to work. I mean you can text call her dad in Phoenix all night and try the “family-merger” old school like Crossing Delancey Street, get yourself six or seven orthodox gardeners who all want to plant people in the same spot, the same mile. Yeah, that’s fine. It could work. 

But for those who prefer the silent methods of execution and torture, the Guantanamo Bay of Dating, the way that there is one common denominator for all the people Mary is seeing? (hint hint) (they have nothing in common except for their desire to woo the same woman) I mean this gal has like zero filters. She’ll date a garbage man to the President of the Postal College. She doesn’t even specify if she needs to stay in Reno or would join Elon on Mars. 

That part is tricky. 

So to destroy the Great Race, get the wreathe of flowers around the neck, and make Mary say, “Da’lin, you complete me,” a man has to man-up and go over to the closest Probation Officer and ask him if he has associates in the carpet cleaning business? He’s going to figure that you need a job like all the rest, wants to take your blood and stool samples but you just sit there like you can’t do anything but rub a commercial bush back and forth on your leg. You go sixty or seventy IQ to get out of the cubicle. He leaves you with a torn piece of paper because these days there are real entrepreneurs instead of just john-Cons with easy access to the lady house parts. They send out invitations for destruction in bulk mailing flyers and most like to keep the business “cash only.” 

Ok. Once you have guido/Sven or Phil Robinhood’s name you get out your trusty burner phone and tell this toot you want to make him some money. He can come over with all his goons in the back but there isn’t much room because most of the carpet cleaning vans now have large OSHA cubes of water (a wonderful mark-up) and you tell this yutz, “Hey Con!” (like that. Put him right in his place so he wants to screw you at once). 

You say, “Look baby…” (float it out like Teddy Savalas) and then ask how much this guy actually (wink wink) makes in a week if he doesn’t have to get lazy. 

He’ll wanna make sure you’re not the fuzz or the tax man. And you can allegedly screw with him and say “Oh yeah? So it takes only two hundred bucks to rent your van?” 

This is why you never want to mess with above-board carpet guys who pay their taxes and are completely honorary in their Gross to Net ratios if you meet them at a bar on the second beer. Former cons are undecided about their future crimes and are usually more slimy. 

He’ll say, “Try 2-thousand dollars, you f’...(horsey horsey whiplash).” 

Then you smile cause you got his number. And this guy rather take off to Arbua or Rubio for a week instead of smelling another wet dog in his machine. Hand him the two large and take his keys. Show him some fake insurance papers that can’t be checked except for the policy number. Now you have the mating vehicle for Mary. 

So you’re all rolling around, the smell of ten houses sloshing in the pick-up tank behind you. Wave at all the nice people in the neighborhood, make sure they remember seeing you at the time when the ice cream man started taking plastic from little kids who took their parent’s credit cards; inflation. Make sure that Missus Gretta is watering her lawn and you are blaring out dirty Pastor Rap Music so that she wants to go in and call the authorities. We are talking time stamps. You need time stamps!

(I think I mentioned Mary seems to like it clean)

She’s probably one of those girls who fell in love with the Boy in the Bubble, John Travolta edition, and that this sexy Italian boy from Jersey would actually die if there was ever a germ or even a dustmite. Hypoalogenetic love gets all the ladies hot. They saw the kiss in the bubble as a prelude to the years of prophylactics before girl-on-boy action became dirty yet remarkably sanctioned by school boards. 

So you have your Mr. T cleaning van, you have the target locked, and the scuttle from more men driving up her block every ten minutes is getting annoying. Put down some rusty nails! But you have to do this in the adjoining streets before the street of Mary. The more patient Greek sort of avenger should hide and then hammer off their oil filters because oil filters are very dirty. Again, Mary hates grime. 

You must emasculate them from their super Chargers and their TrackHawks all dead and dying by the side of the road, to the point where they have to call a third party (Uber?) (I know you can’t ride share in a carpet cleaning van, this is not my first stalking). 

Every eligible bachelor better call his cousin/his brother/even his baby mamma if she wants to see that check again and keep him out of prison. So Gracie agrees to drive her father’s sedan after getting it inspected and she waits near the rusted nails, just down the road from Mary’s dilapidated mansion. Her job is to take them Farrr out to the country and find some reason to kick out the male like he isn’t wearing his seatbelt or some other very important reason. She screams, “Get out or I’ll call the police. You raped me, Mother’fcker” or something outrageous like that and quickly cancels the ride so she doesn’t lose any stars. 

Meanwhile, the purpose of the cleaning van is to suck up all the things that make Mary’s lair comfortable, and refreshing, a place where she will want to put her head if you spritz her dirty rug water on your shirt. That’s right! Psychology Today says that women want men who smell like their father’s gymnasium socks. I can’t find Mary’s dad because he’s already buried and I’m thinking there’s a statue of lamentations on pheromones. Even milk goes bad. 

Now after Gracie has ensured that she’ll be set for a long long time in Family Maintenance money because you tell her that Mary’s family is rich, even though she can’t squint and see through the dry rot on the facia – people generally wish to remain hopeful and that’s why Gracie let you screw her without a codemom in the first place. 

Hahahaha. God that’s expensive. 

You’ll notice that by this time we have simultaneously checked our rear flank while advancing the authorship of love, hope, and Man’s Festive Destiny. 

(Don’t celebrate prematurely, that’s how baby Gracie was born). 

—

Now start the second date using the burner phone. She won’t remember you had plans that evening but “Brad Parsons MD-JD-ELU” is running over an hour late, she’s hungry and you remind her that the cleanest date in the world is over at St. Katherine’s Mercy Hospital in the anti-pressure room. Make sure you repeat “anti-pressure” and explain how the trays are boiled to 300 degrees and that the chef is the same one used by the dedicated oncology staff who have immunocompromised diners, then: “Just like the bubble boy.” 

(wait for it). 

She’s gonna get all nostalgic over little John Travolta’s butt chin and completely forget there is a medical bed that offers the best angles for couples looking for that Gräfenberg spot, that intravenous fluids can keep everyone moist and yet excited, that the dim lights for photophobia can make anyone look almost pretty. This is the reason it is best to date at night. 

Pick her up in a Gran Torino cruiser because it has infinite class, is still hermetically sealed so that the spritz of her dirty floors doesn’t fly out, the most expensive cologne in the world. There’s always some real patients that Gracie can wheel out of their special room while they sleep. Again, this is the reason that “best man” is a serious consideration for your accessories in courtship because Christian Girls always want you to date with intention. 

What’s the intention here? Mary’s got no money. 

Her house looks like all the day workers in Los Angeles would ask to “tear it down.” The fact that your first survey of the land (breaking and entering to get the essence of the carpets and sofas) presented a real lack of fine jewels before the vanity mirrors, there were hardly any stock certificates in her wall safe, the cat looked like it was thin like it didn’t know Fancy Feast – so what’s the End Game? 

Heaven. 

No really. Dating Mary is better than life insurance. I mean are you really going to enjoy any money after you die? 

1 Corinthians 7:14 says: 

For the unbelieving husband is sanctified by the wife, and the unbelieving wife is sanctified by the husband: else were your children unclean; but now are they holy.

If you read this closely, you have to get Mary to a church after several glasses of bad decisions. A woman of her vintage has heard the proposals many times and failed to change religions. 

Good news!

Saint Katherine also has real hospital staff who are ordained to grant last rites, marriage certificates, minor confessions, and crackers to the hungry. I love these guys. 

If she stalls and says, “I have to have you call my father,” yell at one of the orderlies in black scrubs and say “There’s a padre”

If she doubts, quote 

Matthew 23:9, "And do not call anyone on earth 'father,' for you have one Father, and he is in heaven.” 

You better rub a little salt behind the ear, because it intensifies the smell of her laundry. This is her Exodus from maidenhead tearing, the conflagration of love and duty with a touch of religious zeal, the way St. Paul said we should burn with passion (after the ceremony, baby, hold your horses) and the ring can come from any piercings on your body but don’t make Mary feel bad that her fingers are not that thin like a pianist. 

There’s always a way to open up the hoop in a jiff. 

Now say: I thee wed. 

Say it!

She hesitates because John Travolta spent months wooing the young girl but in this rush to become legally one party, you have had to force the issue, to seal the deal and lick her fingers from rust. 

Now the best honeymoon I can think of is taking that Obsessive Cleaning spouse and getting out there and doing some real crime. She can’t say a damn thing once you have tied the knot and she’s not going to let you walk around with toilet paper evidence on the bottom of your shoe like that Gracie.