Monthly Archives: February 2008

Chuck Lorre is a God

“Do you love me?” she said. 

Her gorgeous brown eyes twinkling as she spoke.  She was one of the most beautiful women in the world, long sun-kissed hair, perfect skin and a body that would make a Sports Illustrated swimsuit photographer do a double take.

“Of course I love you, Ween” he said, though never looking away from the TV set.

“Is there somebody else?” she asked.

“Why would you say that?” a hint of guilt escaping his lips.

“I think you’re in love with somebody else.”

“That’s not true!” he said.  This time he looked up.  A commercial had just begun.

“You spend way more time with . . .”  She couldn’t even finish the sentence.  Though she had known for a long time, putting it into words made her even sadder.

“Look,” he said, “We’ve gone through this before.  It’s not love and it’s not cheating.  It’s just a special friendship.  I have needs that you can’t fulfill.  I don’t think you can understand.  Nobody makes me laugh like . . . like . . . him.” 

There he had said it.  He had finally vocalized it.  It felt good.  He had said what he had wanted to say for years and it felt good.

She sighed.  “You know it didn’t bother me at first.  When it was just Cybill.  But then it was Grace Under Fire.  And now it’s the Big Bang Theory and Two and a Half Men 12 times a week.  And you TiVo every one of them!” 

She was yelling now, something she did not do, but Elvis had left the building and he wasn’t coming back.

“I only TiVo them so I can read the Chuck Lorre vanity cards.”

“You’re in love with Chuck Lorre, aren’t you!, she accused, her words making the oxygen retreat to the corners of the room.

“I am not in love with Chuck Lorre,” he said. “Ween, I love you.  You are the world to me.  We’ve been together for 10 years.  We have children together.  We share everything.  I love you today more than I loved you when we met.  And I’ll probably love you even more next week.  And, if sometimes I don’t give you enough attention, then I am an idiot and I am sorry.  You are my universe and nothing, I mean nothing, could ever take me away from you.”

Suddenly the phone rings.  He quickly grabs it.

“Hello”

“Hello, this is Chuck Lorre.  We would like you to move to L.A. and help me write the Chuck Lorre vanity cards.”

“Hey Ween.  Chuck just called.  I’m leaving you.  Good-bye.”

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Note from Glenn – If you don’t know who Chuck Lorre is or what Chuck Lorre Vanity Cards are, you are missing out on a comic genius.  Check out http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0521143/. Chuck is the creator and writer of Roseanne, Cybill, Grace Under Fire, Two and a Half Men and The Big Bang Theory. 

Copyright 2004 – 2008, Glenn G. Millar

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What Would We Do Without Beer Goggles?

Today, with the onslaught of technology where we meet people online, where we communicate with lovers via email and where we actually have sex using webcams, there is one tool of love that has changed very little.  (No, not that one ladies.) 

I am, of course, referring to Beer Goggles.

Beer Goggles are a wonderful bit of technology, used primarily by men, which allows men to get laid by dropping their standards even below their already ridiculously low threshold.  Whereas the average sober man keeps rigorous standards when searching for his short-term mate, such as for instance, she must in fact be human; the man wearing Beer Goggles may have no such requirement.

Perfected by the East Germans and mass-produced by American beer companies, Beer Goggles are now a staple in most every single man’s toolbox of love.  (Stored right between the Old Spice aftershave and bikini underwear.) 

Despite popular belief, beer was not originally invented as a refreshing drink, but was in fact created to achieve the desired state of Beer Goggles.  The refreshing taste of beer was purely an added benefit and allowed men to drink it even when women weren’t around, thus giving rise to Sports Goggles.  (“Really,” says my quite drunk friend from Chicago. “This is the year that the Cubs win the Series.”  And then he takes another swig of Sports Goggles.)

The strange thing about Beer Goggles is that they only seem to affect men.  How often do you see a beautiful woman leaving a bar with a butt-ugly man?

Why is this?  What is it about women that are immune to the effect?

In order to answer this question I did quite a lot of field research.  That is to say I hung out in bars and tried to get women drunk.  (Yes, there are certain benefits to this job.)  What I found was that women do not seem to be affected by Beer Goggles in the same way as men.

True, many women do not drink beer, but I surmised that the affect of any alcohol should be the same.  Perhaps then, it is the presence of tiny paper umbrellas that wards off the nasty effects of the Beer Goggles.  I believe that when an ugly man hits on a woman who has had too many Mai Tais, the tiny paper umbrellas jump into action.  They start performing a little dance, not unlike the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies, and they sing this little ditty. 

(Sung to the tune of I heard it through the Grapevine)

I bet you wondered how I knew
That an ugly guy was hittin’ on you
Uglier than the one before
Time for you to run out the door
He took you by surprise, I must say
But you must still get away.

Don’t you know . . .
That you’ve drunk too much wine
Get out now and you will be fine
Yes, you’ve gone through too much wine
Go home with him? Have you lost your mind!
Honey, honey yeah.

I know you don’t want to cry
But now you must say goodbye
Cause when you’re sober you will see
That he looks just, like Mini-Me.
You could go home to his loft
And end up chew-ing your arm off
Don’t you know . . .

That you’ve drank too much wine
Get out now and you will be fine
Yes, you’ve gone through too much wine
Go home with him? Have you lost your mind!
Honey, honey yeah.

Thus, the woman, now sufficiently warned by the tiny paper umbrellas, does not go home with the ugly man.  That’s one theory.

My other theory is that woman are just far more intelligent and not nearly as desperate as men and getting them drunk is not going to change this.  Frankly, I prefer the comfort of my first theory in that if I can figure out a way around those damn dancing paper umbrellas, I just might have a chance.

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Copyright 2004 – 2008, Glenn G. Millar

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Filed under The Single Guy

Is Romance Dead?

My friend Jen’s parent’s story is truly a romantic tale.  The first time they met he saw a vision of beauty; cascading brown hair, beautiful eyes, and the sweetest voice he ever heard.  She saw, well . . . a giant troll.  He was entranced.  She was exasperated.  He was delighted.  She was disgusted.  He was smitten.  She was sick to her stomach.  He had butterflies.  She was about to lose her lunch.

He, however, was not to be denied.  He called her.  She ignored him.  He sent her flowers.  She ignored him.  He wrote her poems.  She read the poems.  Her eyes welled up with tears.  And then she ignored him.

For 6 months he pursued the object of his affection.  For 6 months she ran  . . . fast . . . I mean really fast . . . really, really fast.  And then something happened which can only be explained by the mysteries of the cosmos.  She fell madly in love with him.  Last year, they celebrated their 40th wedding anniversary.

Today, we have a name for this romantic tale.  We call it stalking.  Try this same tactic today and you will not get a wife; you will get a restraining order.

In fairy-tales that little girls grow up with, the handsome prince shows up at the castle climbs up the trellis and whisks his true love away to live happily ever after.  In the real world this is referred to as breaking and entering with a side-order of kidnapping.

What happened to the world?  Is romance dead?  Does romance no longer exist?  Perhaps it is how we have evolved as humans.  10,000 years ago when you met someone you liked, you followed the respectable courting protocol.  You clubbed her over the head and dragged her back to your cave. 

Of course we no longer do this.  Nowadays we have to buy her a drink first.

No actually, over the centuries, we really did try to modernize dating.

First, we had arranged marriages.  We actually decided it would be smart if our parents chose our mate for us. This action not only ensured that we would procreate, but that we would be with someone who could annoy us for the next 50 years, about the same things our parents had annoyed us about for the first 18.  This, I believe, is the sole reason that the average life expectancy during this time was only 32.

Arranged marriages – now whose idea was that?  Not that arranged marriages are such a bad idea.  With 50% of marriages ending in divorce, could our parents choose any more poorly than we choose for ourselves? 

“Stop!” you say, “Don’t arranged marriages take away the unalienable right that we all have called Free Choice?

Yes, we have the right to choose.  We have the right to fall in love and marry that person we fall in love with.  We have a right to choose someone who all our friends hate, our parents hate, and who, if we weren’t completely morons, we would have noticed that we hate as well.

Later in history with the rise of specialization, the arranged marriage was replaced by the “Yenta.”  (The town Matchmaker.)  After all, if your parents couldn’t pick the perfect mate for you, surely the woman in town who knew everyone could find that special someone.  This system worked well for hundreds of years until the town Yenta’s began to realize the financial benefits of repeat business, so they started hooking people up who would ultimately hate each other, creating the concept of divorce and ensuring and constant flow of new business for the Yenta. 

The industrial age brought a variety of modern techniques for picking the perfect mate.  These included the Singles’s Bar, The Dating Service, Online Dating and finally, “Speed Dating.” 

Speed Dating is based on the concept that in an 8-minute conversation you can accurately predict that this is the person you may or may not want to spend the rest of your life with.  This may work – I do not know.  But I do believe that it will exasperate another problem.  Does it seem fair that a girl meets you at 8-minute dating and then expects more than 4-minute sex?

Fast forward to Year 2124.  A computer has now been devised which will find you the perfect mate.  All you have to do is answer a few simple questions, provide a urine sample, give a pint of blood and spend 7 days in a brain scanning machine so the computer will understand every one of your most intimate desires and dreams.  Then, instantly, the computer will give you give you the name of your soul mate.  And of course, it will most likely be the name of your ex-wife.

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Copyright 2004 – 2008, Glenn G. Millar

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Filed under The Single Guy