10) You still imagine yourself participating when you watch steamy love scenes at the movies -- only now you consider how you'd break a damned hip, if you were to carry on like that.


9) Your idea of a date involves an episode of 'Diagnosis: Murder' and a Denny's Grand Slam breakfast. With the right girl, maybe there'll be canasta afterward.


8) Two words: coin purse.


7) You've given up on finding yourself a smoking hot MILF, and set your sights on a nice matronly GILF, instead. You'd better hope she's a Polydent user, Romeo.


6) Watching your favorite TV programs evokes thoughts like: 'I wonder why Bea Arthur and that Dick Van Dyke fellow never got together. They could have had the most handsome children!'


5) Girls no longer give you their phone numbers in bars; instead, they give you the number of a good toupee fitter.


4) Four more words: 1984 Buick Riviera sedan.


3) The barber shaves your ears during a haircut. He doesn't even ask -- he just does it.


2) You notice your nipples getting more tender and sensitive. It's from your belt chafing them when you've pulled your pants up under your armpits. Who are you, Ed Grimley's dad?


1) You make Saturday Night Live references from before anyone reading this was even born. You'll clearly never be sexy again -- you ignorant slut.

I was catching up on my email at work today, and encountered that most dastardly of work correspondences, the Email to Which You Cannot Possibly Respond.


The Email to Which You Cannot Possibly Respond comes in many flavors, of course. It might come from your boss on your off day, asking whether you could possibly stop by the office. Perhaps a coworker has written you, urgently requesting that you take a project off her hands. Or the office manager has emailed to broadcast the license plate -- your license plate -- of the car that's been rudely left in the clearly-labeled executive parking area. Certainly, these qualify as Emails to Which You Cannot Possibly Respond.


The mail I received today was just a tad different. It was from a guy in the office -- a guy in a support role. He does one thing -- one esoteric but necessary, very specialized thing -- and by all accounts, he does it quite well. But he's picky. If you want him to do his thing -- to perform his unusual, weird, freakly skill on your data -- you've got to deliver it just so, in exactly the right format, attached in precisely the specified way, with no special requests, extraneous information, or innocent questions. He's the 'Data Nazi'; even look at him the wrong way and it's 'No results for you!'


And apparently, I've crossed him.


Before leaving for vacation, I sent off a couple of requests for our Data Nazi to handle. And, it seems, I broke some unwritten code or other about the manner in which I asked. Maybe the files were attached rather than pasted in, or vice versa. Maybe I wasn't clear about which project was involved. Maybe, in a subconscious fit of defiance, I addressed the email to 'Dear Poopyshoes'. I can't say, really.


All I know is that I returned from vacation to find an email from the gentleman -- a scathing, pedantic, self-righteous bit of fluff, full of 'I've said it a thousand times' and 'shouldn't you know by now' and 'is this really the best use of my time' verbiage.


I assure you, meanwhile, that my transgression -- if, indeed, there was one -- was trivially minor. I do my best to meet the unreasonable and illogical demands of other people in the office, I really do. Mostly so I can someday justify launching a maniacal reign of terror myself, mind you -- but still, I play the game. So whatever it was that set him off was the merest trifle -- a typo on a file extension, or forgetting to ask 'Mother, May I?' in the requesting email.


I'd like nothing more -- particularly since the missive was copied to several other folks in the office food chain -- than to respond with an apology couched in subtle, witty sarcasm. 'I'm truly sorry for my egregious error,' I might say, 'and for the tiny, tiny penis that must have led you to send your email response.'


(Okay, so apparently 'subtle' sarcasm is out the window. You get the point.)


Believe me, I've tried. I started four different responses, cc'ed to all of the original recipients, intended to clear my name as best as possible and point out the man's blatant overreaction. Sadly, I couldn't find a way to reply that didn't start with: 'Look, bitch'. Somehow, I don't think that would highlight my 'overreaction' message very well.


Plus, I need this guy. He does one thing, but it's a thing that no one in the office does, and it happens to be a thing I'm forced to ask for from time to time. Digitally pimpslapping him back would only drive me further up whatever sort of 'Shit List' he's tallying. And that's a list of shit I can't afford climbing.


So, I've got myself an 'Email to Which I Cannot Possibly Respond'. I simply amended my original requests -- with no additional text, lest that 'look, bitch' slip out -- and sent them back. And now I have to hope I don't run into the guy for a few days, lest a face-to-face lecture turn into a chocolate swirly that I'd probably (eventually) regret.


Still, that won't stop me from slipping a couple of Ex-Lax into his coffee, at the next possible opportunity. I didn't say I wouldn't get the bastard back -- I just said he wouldn't know it came from me. Paybacks are a bitch, Poopypants. Hope you've got a magazine to pass the time.

I've been wondering lately -- are the kids still doing that silly thing where the guy has to ask for explicit permission at every step of the making-out process before making a move? I recall that sort of system being encouraged in schools the past few years. It seems overly cumbersome, if you ask me.


If you haven't heard of this particular brand of collegiate cockblockery, here's how it works: a young suitor can chat with his lass for as long as he likes. Now, I'm guessing he's still not allowed to say things like, 'So, you a stripper?' or 'I'll show you my love tube if you'll show me yours.' Not if he's playing strictly by the rules, anyway -- generally speaking, he's got to keep things squeaky cleanish.


But if the guy wants to push the envelope a little, relationship-wise, he's got to ask her permission first. He might lean in close, look deep into her eyes, and say:


'Pardon me, miss, but would it be terribly troubling if I placed my hand on your knee?'


Or, if he's already past that hurdle, maybe he'd ask:


'So, dear... how about if I give you just a little peck, right there just on the elbow?'


And perhaps later in the evening:


'Okay, I'm going to strap this thing onto you now, and then I'll bring in the hamsters. If you feel uncomfortable with any of this, you just tell me, and we'll stop. The safeword is 'colostomy'.'


Now, all of this is well and good -- certainly, we can't have horny guys grabbing and clawing their way into young ladies' unmentionables. At least, not any more, apparently. Not like the good old grabby, clawy days. But it seems to me that these formal, specific questions could really get tiresome in a real-life situation. Assuming all the participants are willing, it's not as easy to keep things 'hot and heavy', when you're constantly forced to ask, 'Is it okay if we get hot?' and 'Would you be comfortable with heavy right now?'


Come to think of it, I've got no information on whether it's only the guy that has to do the asking. But that's what I'm assuming. If the girl were on the hook to push things along, I think it'd go a little quicker:


Her: Is it okay if I take off my shoes?
Him: Absolutely. And actually, let's just assume that my answer is going to be 'yes', up to and including, 'Have you ever had one of these in your mouth before?' And probably past that, too.


Presumptuous? Yes. But things would go so much more quickly.


So, here's my idea -- scrap the whole question thing. Forget about checking in about what every hand and tongue and latex-covered appliance is about to do. That's too much detail. Instead, work out a scale of what's going to be allowed, and settle it beforehand. We all know that girls have figured out how far they're willing to go with a guy waaaay before the situation arises. Usually before the first date -- and sometimes, before she's even met the guy.


So, fine. Let her call the shots. Have a one-to-ten scale, with rules for each number. One is, maybe, an arm around the shoulder. Maybe five means anything above the waist. Eight gets you anything short of farm animals in the bedroom, and we think ten has something to do with bowling pins and a live octopus, but no one's yet survived to tell the details.


The point is, come up with as much detail and as many rules as you like. I guarantee you every single guy between the ages of sixteen and sixty will have it memorized verbatim within twenty-four hours. And then, it becomes so simple:


Him: Hi, Sue. You ready to go to dinner?

Her: Sure, Brad. Let's go.
Him: So -- you got a number in mind?

Her: Well, you've been so sweet. How about a 'four'?
Him: Nice. I can work with that. What if we go to the steakhouse instead of McDonalds?

Her: Oh. Well, okay, four-and-a-half. Plus a smack on the ass. Deal?
Him: Deal. Let's eat!


See? Easier. Now those crazy kids can enjoy their meal, knowing just what they're getting for 'dessert'. No muss, no fuss, and no twenty questions to decide whether an animal, vegetable, or mineral will be involved. All of the problems of courtship solved in one fell swoop. You can thank me later.



Preferably with a 'seven'. Just make sure you bring the chocolate pudding. We wouldn't want a 'nine' to break out accidentally, now, would we?