Friday, July 01, 2005

More Taxes More Sex

So I called her.

"Hi, this is the bulb, remember? Big guy, friendly eyes."
"Yeah, I know who you are. How are you?"
"I got the things you asked for..........."
(Tax bullshit I wont bother you with.)

"I got one more question regarding my taxes, how about you and me get together over dinner?"
"Wow. Bulb! I ..... eh...... great! I was hoping you'd ask. Let me give you my private number."


At leat in a perfect world this is how it should have gone. But harsh reality kicked in once more.

"I got one more question regarding my taxes, how about you and me get together over dinner?"
"Wow. Bulb! I...... eh..... I have a boyfriend."
"Well bring him along so I can stare at him angrily all evening."
(nervous laughter) "I..... I..... don't think he'd like that."
"Well, at least it beats having to wash your hair."
'No really! I have a boyfriend."
"yeah...... ehm..... that's not what I meant. Anyway. I hope you wont hold it agaist me that I like you."
"I.... eh..... I won't."
"Good luck with my taxes."

And that was that. Stupid bitch! Let's call it her loss. Seems like it's another night of me, Diana Krall and a good German white wine.
(Meanwhile in an alternate reality I'll be fucking a cute accountants brains out. Life can be so unfair.)

Wednesday, June 29, 2005

Taxes and Sex

I used to hate paying taxes. It's not the money. It's not that almost 50% of my earnings disappear into the bottomless pockets of our socialist government. It's not that MY money is spent on such completely unnecessary bullshit as trafficlights and social security checks. It's the paperwork
I used to hate paying taxes. Until today.
Financially I finally made it into the league where I can afford my own accountant. So armed with a bundle of paperwork, I set out to my new (rather expensive) friend. They made me wait in the lobby a bit, so I flipped the pages of "Money Journal", looking really sophisticated and rich. I settled down in the cozy leather sofa, awaiting my balding, badly dressed bespectacled nerd. (Funny how the guy you used to beat up in highschool always ends up doing your taxes.) Rather engrossed in a highly amusing article about interest rate fluctuations in third world countries, I was barely aware of my name being softly called. And then it happened.
She can't be over 25. Freckles all over her pretty face. Dressed in an immaculately clean business suit that would probably cost more than I make in a month. A dose of red hair that looks as if she has a barber instead of a cat. Carefully polished black leather shoes.
I stood up. I dropped my magazine. I sat down again. Picked up the damn magazine. Stood up. Remembered something. Sat down again. Tried to put the magazine back on the rack. Failed. Stood up again. Apologized. Tried to hide the magazine behind the leather sofa. Apologised again and ventured to look at her.
She laughed as she held out her hand. And her laughter sounded like... fuck this. I'm not gonna write another romance novel. I'll just give you the gist of it.

The Bulb is in love once again.

This woman made me forget Psychoturk. No other woman has had that effect on me in a long time. I have no idea how long I talked to her. Could be 20 minutes. Could have been an hour. I remember her apologizing that her office was a mess. I remember her telling me she got her law degree last January. I remember her telling me she went backpacking in Australia. I remember her laughing at my anecdotes. I remember her filling out some dopey form and asking: "Are you single?" I remember answering: "Yes. Are you?" I remember ...... I suddenly remembered that I was paying this bitch by the hour.

I got her business card. I got her phone number. Her name translates into: "Goatstream" (Has there ever been a sexier name?) Tomorrow I'm gonna call her and ask her out.

Stay tuned. (There might be some hot steamy posts coming up in the next few weeks.)

Tuesday, June 28, 2005

What women want

There is no consensus amongst men regarding what women want. The only consensus we seem to be able to reach is that women do not want what they say they want.
Example: (Taken from random (free) dating site.)

"I like a man to be sensitive, understanding and funny. A man who is not affraid to show his feminine side. A man who will laugh with me when I'm happy and who will cry with me when I am sad. A man who takes care of the way he looks. Maybe goes to a solarium once in a while."
Translation: "I want to date a goddamn homosexual."

One of my patients litterally went crazy trying to become what women want a man to be. He took the list of requirements that women always force on you litterally and tried incorporate all those qualities within himself. He became sensitive. He became understanding. He became sweet, not-just-interested-in-sex, athletic, articulate, cultured, an equal-opportunity-freak, a good conversationalist etc. The list is endless.
One morning he woke up and his testicles were gone.

Men are simpler. Maybe even more honest. Ask a man what he wants and he'll probably tell you: "Nice tits, great ass and a porsche." (The porsche is optional.)
Translation: "Nice tits, great ass and a sense of humor." (Sense of humor is optional.)

Monday, June 27, 2005

It's a girl!!!!




Yesterday was a day of great joy, in the Netherlands, for another crownprincess has been born into our royal family. It was a day of festive celebration. Peasants left their fields and gathered in make-shift barn cafes to drink themselves into a comatose slumber. Labourers marched the street, cheering and chanting their support for our aristocracy. Or at least it should have been that kind of day.
The days of yore are gone and no longer is our crownprince worshipped like a demi-God. His absolutely gorgeous Argentinian wife however, is. Not only is she a blonde, heaving-bussum kind of woman, she's also quite intelligent. Her most famous quote about her husband is: "He's a bit stupid." He might be, but who cares. With a wife that is every 30-something single alcoholics fantasy, he's okay with me. And beside. Soon he'll be our King. Eat your heart out America. You may have Michael Jackson, we've got ourselves a full-fledged King!

Now aint they a pretty pair? I'm so happy I could do the hokey-pokey.