THE HIGH MAINTENANCE WOMAN

You know who I mean.  She always enters a room fully expecting to be feted.  She routinely inspects her appearance discreetly in every reflective surface, but takes no pains to conceal her contempt of others.  She’s always flipping her hair and gauging reaction from the corner of her eye.  God forbid another attractive woman occupy the same radius!

No one commands the petulant quite like her.  If a stamp of her (exceptionally well-shod) foot doesn’t snap you to attention, she’s always ready with a barb designed to shrivel your manhood.  If she launches it in public, so much the better.  Nothing smacks of true love more than humiliation.

If you can’t satisfy her every demand, be certain that a queue of the willing are just behind.  You are only a means to end, but you don’t really mind, do you?  It’s a small price to pay. 

The appeal is irresistable.  For every man decrying the dwindling numbers of respectable, date-worthy women, there are two fighting for favor of the bitchy ones.  Who wants a loving woman to keep the home fire burning, when a dismissive tempermental one is ready to burn it down?

Not that her temper assures you of any heat in the bedroom.  More often than not, she’s a cold fish… but damn!  Doesn’t she look bodacious in that Victoria’s Secret thong?  Maybe you’re not getting laid, but all your buddies will think you are.

It’s all a matter of appearance, not substance.  But who cares about substance?  Better to be the envy, not the pity, of the boys down at the Legion.  They can have their pick of the wallflowers… you’re going home with Miss September.

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