I'm a letdown for random chicks cuz at first it seems like they've snared this dashing stud with awesome hair and a warm, non-judgmental Midwestern personality. Little do they know that my dud-filtering process includes a lengthy discussion of the themes of Blue Murder lyrics. Then, as she absently stirs her drink, I detail the sad, eternal curse of Anthrax singers as a compassion test. It's rigorous discourse, true, but a D is a passing grade if you read me. And anyway, her drink has usually been thrown in my face by mention of "Sex Child" while to others, slightly sexier non-versation is needed, so I playfully assert that the lives of Brad Pitt and myself are strikingly similar. At mention of BP, the contemporary female body has been socio-biologically calibrated to moisten itself, so I have a second before the imminent disbelief grips her. That second is used to hurriedly point out the exception: I'm toasted all the time. Well, now the bastard's obviously trying to surpass me on this modest count as well (above). It's bad enough he lamely used me as a basis for his character in True Romance. Get off my ballsack, Pitt!

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