Do you like me? If yes, please don’t start your carJune 9, 2009
So there’s something going on in Iraq where men who are unsuccessful at courting the woman of their desires are leaving bombs outside their object of affection’s houses. Not to kill, but to scare. They call ’em “Love I.E.D’s.”
Seeing how I’m no stranger to rejection this story has my attention, so I find the only person I know who is well versed in relationships and explosives, Bernie the Half-Cyborg Cat.
“I’m pretty sure if I knew how to make bombs that I wouldn’t plant some outside the house of the woman I was looking to date,” I say. “Unless she was really into that sort of thing. Some girls want a banker or a doctor or a lawyer; others might get moist for bombmakers.”
“I know I find my wife’s ability to make nail bombs somewhat charming,” says Bernie the Half-Cyborg Cat. “But it’s not so charming when she keeps trying to bomb that Arthur Treacher’s Fish and Chips shop in the mall food court.”
“Well, it good to have a hobby, I guess,” I say. “Some people collect figurines, Marlie keeps fighting to drive the British out of Northern Ireland. I’m surprised she can even make remote-triggered explosives considering how much she drinks.”
“The booze keeps her hands steady,” says Bernie the Half-Cyborg Cat.
“Maybe the bombmaking is some sort of show of skill,” I say. “Like if the girl doesn’t want to date the guy because she thinks he’s a loser and has no skills. So he goes home and makes a bomb as if to say ‘Oh yeah, well check this shit out. I got mad skills.'”
“At least they’re not using the bombs to kill US soldiers,” says Bernie the Half-Cyborg Cat. “I’m surprised that killing a infidel is not an aphrodisiac in the Middle East.”
“Yeah, there are no stories about a suicide bomber exploding himself and killing a bunch of troops just to impress a girl,” I say. “There’s no Iraqi John Hinckley Jr. with a bomb jacket trying to impress Jodie Foster, or whatever her equivalent is today. Who would that be? Dakota Fanning?”
“I’d like to see an Al-Qaeda terror cell that’s dedicated to trying to impress the cast of Laguna Beach,” says Bernie the Half-Cyborg Cat. “I don’t think I hate those vapid wastes of flesh enough. There are still tiny bits of my being that don’t feel the rage that the rest of me feels about them. And if innocent Americans have to die because of it, well what do I care? I’m a cat. Fuck humanity.”
“Is setting a bomb off in front of your reluctant beloved’s home better than e-mailing a picture of your erect cock to her?” I say. “Because I don’t see either as the thing that’s really going to win over someone. I have trouble picturing a girl saying ‘You know, I was ready to write this guy off but then he sent that picture of his cock and I was sold.'”
“It’s had to have worked before for someone,” says Bernie. “Both the bomb and the cock part. Otherwise guys wouldn’t keep doing it, right?”
“I wish I could say yes,” I say. “But guys are pretty dumb. The bombs, the cock pictures…they’re like The One Ring from Lord of the Rings. Everyone thinks they can harness it for something really awesome but no one ever gets it to work and in the end it just fucks them over.”
“What if you sent a girl a bomb in the shape of your cock?” says Bernie the Half-Cyborg Cat.
So we spend the rest of the day trying to contact of that Cynthia Plaster Caster woman who makes plaster casts of celebrity penises. Yeah, she’s done Jimi Hendrix and Jello Biafra’s penises, but has she ever done one that needed to be filled with explosives for the purpose of melting a young lady’s heart, and possibly someone’s face?