Monday, December 12, 2005

Please Allow Sweet Daddy Lovedrops To Address All Your Romantic Concerns

If I had thirteen cents for every time some gloomy-faced dude
stopped me on the street to ask, “Sweet Daddy Lovedrops, how
do I get women to notice me?”, I would have more than enough
money to buy one of those fancy-new “I-pods” what with the
video screen and all. But Sweet Daddy Lovedrops is not some
greedy, business-suit sort of relationship consultant, like your
Dr. Phils and your Dr. Lauras and your other such Oprah-ish
pop psychology figures. Sweet Daddy Lovedrops is a different
animal entirely. Let me tell you a little something about Sweet
Daddy Lovedrops: Sweet Daddy Lovedrops dispenses his ad-
vice free of charge to all those yearning millions out there who
are baffled by the mysterious congress that takes place between
a woman and a man. The joy of spreading eros among the con-
fused and forsaken is reward enough for Sweet Daddy

This is why I will now, for once and for all, answer that question
above, a question that has vexed even the greatest philosophers
and poets of the age. Like some timid ground squirrel hidden
beneath the underbrush of ignorance, superstition, and cant, I
shall pull forth the elusive truth and hold it up to the purifying
rays of knowledge. The cloudy will become clear, the concealed
will become certain, and the occult will become actual when–with
the help of science–I reveal to the masses the simple secret all
heterosexual men have been pining to learn ever since roughly
around their fourteenth birthday! And does Sweet Daddy
Lovedrops do this for personal aggrandizement? Does he do
it for his own daytime television show? Does he do it to see his
stunningly-handsome, elaborately-mustachioed face upon a
stack of books piled near the information desk at every Barnes
and Nobel from Seattle to Miami? He does not. Unlike a certain
physically-imposing, Texas-twanging “life strategy” coach who
will remain anonymous, Sweet Daddy Lovedrops has no ulterior
motive. My ulterior motive is your inner peace. It’s true. I
had those words tattooed in a ring around my left nipple so that
I can remind myself of it when I’m in the shower...

But I seem to have drifted from the point.

The point is that I have conducted an extensive, statistically-
valid, and personally-exhausting survey of 594 inmates at the
Shakopee Women’s Correctional Facility in order to determine
exactly what the feminine population is looking for when they
look at a man. These were ladies of from all ages, races, back-
grounds, and controlling offenses who were asked (by my crack
staff of graduate students and Manpower temps) what they con-
sidered the most important factor in a quality mate. Clench up
gentlemen, for the results are as follows:

79.443%: The “Buttocks”
17.4%: Pool playing ability
9.99%: Jesus as personal savior
8.2%: Fresh breath
4.9%: A compelling collection of antique weaponry
1.5%: A fishtank with a shark in it
0.8%: Cool scars
0.2%: Wit and/or charm
0.2%: A “Johnson” to be reckoned with
0.2%: The Mojo Hand
0.1%: Fire in the belly, gleam in the eye
0.1%: Cigarettes
0.04%: Vague Toby Keith resemblance

Could the answer be any clearer? To win the attentions of
the lady demographic, we as men must first attend to our
backsides. We must sculp them, shape them, louver them
and paddle them into the shapes which womenfolk find ap-
pealing to the eye. Just think of it with me. Think of the
last time you were in a bar. Let’s say, hypothetically, that
this bar is named “Slugger’s”. Slugger’s is packed. It’s a
Saturday night and you’re feeling good. You’re in your best
shirt, the one with all the blue stripes in it and you’re going
to score tonight. You know it. You know it so much that you
feel no worry as you sidle up to the prettiest face in the joint.
Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that this is a 22-year old
blonde who is in the last year of dental hygienist school. Her
name is Veronica. She is an angel, in her salmon-pink halter-
toppy thingie and those sort of horse-riding-type pants that,
you know, kind of hug the hips in a way that kind of, you know,
emphasizes certain aspects of her. But where was I? Oh yeah!
You slide in next to Veronica there at Sluggers and you, smooth
as a sushi dookie, say to her “Excuse me, miss, but may I buy
you a drink?” And then–I know it hurts, but just imagine it–she
looks you up and down and says, “Ummmm, I’m sort of meeting
somebody, you know?”

What the hell happened? I can hear you asking that even over
the empty and silent void of the internet! Well, according to
the gals at the Shakopee Women’s Correctional Facility, it more
than likely has something to do with your ass! You’re either
toting far too much in the way of ham-hocks back there or else
you’re trying to make do with some pitiful, bony pseudo-butt.
You’re disgusting to them, with your uneasy-on-the-eyes rear
view. Look at yourself, in your stupid striped shirt, trying to
be debonair with that husky and drooping thing hanging south-
ward on the reverse-end!

Hell, yeah! And don’t think you don’t also sicken Sweet Daddy
Lovedrops, Mister Fumbledy-Bum! I can’t even think of it
anymore! I need to take some “me-time” to erase the vision
of that shapeless, indecent, cottage-cheesy thing you’ve been
hauling from failure to failure! It’s the size of Dr. Phil’s ego,
isn’t it? It is! You ought to be ashamed. Take this time to
reflect on what a miserable waste of 52-inch waist Dockers
you are, you gruesome loser you...




I’m back now to tell you that you don’t have to settle for it

You can change. You can be better. With a little will and a
lot of effort, you can march back into Slugger’s and offer
up to Veronica a breathtaking posterior, a rump to make
her fall madly in love with you, a hindquarters of such
glory that it shall completely cover over the insipidness
of your thought and the darkness deep in your soul.

How?, you might ask. Well why don’t you just shut up and
let Sweet Daddy Lovedrops tell you how! Damn!

Step One: You Need To Buy Yourself Some New Pants

This is an unquestionable Fact of the Universe: your pleated
pants diminish your fuckability by a factor of six thousand.
You need to cut them up and use them as rags to clean out
that grimy orangish substance under the rim of your toilet.
Do the same with all the khakis you’ve got that are stained
by the grease from the jalapeno-flavored potato chips you
can’t keep yourself from eating. And those “stonewashed”
jeans with enough room in the back to fit a 737 engine: those
must go also. I realize that this will probably decimate your
wardrobe, but sometimes destruction must be endured–nay,
even encouraged–to foster life anew. There must be a purify-
ing fire which you, a dazed and glassy-eyed novitiate, must
stumble through willingly in order to emerge on the other
side the man you wish to be, the man who has cleaned the
junk from his trunk, the man with the top bottom.

So, by all means, go to a fancy clothier and issue forth the
following proclaimation: “I am sick and tired of being shot
down and I am at last willing to purchase apparel which
hangs gracefully and flatteringly over the delightful con-
tours of my gluteal region! Is there anyone who will help
me?” You’d be amazed at the response you get once you
assure others that you are on the positive road to recov-
ery. Sales people will come flocking and, at the end of the
day, you will find yourself blessed with such an abundance
of new pants that world will seem to glow with a secret
light meant only for you. But you aren’t quite ready to
go back to Slugger’s yet, sport. Oh no, you aren’t. No
way. We have much more work to do...

Step Two: You Need To “Work Out” A Little, You Lazy

Pardon me for sounding like a personal trainer. Sweet Daddy
Lovedrops is not a certified physical trainer. Sweet Daddy
Lovedrops does, admittedly, hold lapsed memberships in
several area sports facilities, but he is no “Billy Blanks”, he
is no “Tai Bo” champion. No, Sweet Daddy Lovedrops is
simply a concerned citizen, one of the few out there without
a series of video-cassettes and a set of free weights to hawk
on late night television, I’m afraid. So Sweet Daddy Love-
drops must make a legal disclaimer. Sweet Daddy Love-
drops assumes that you do the following exercises at your
own risk, without pre-existing medical conditions such as
diabetes, kidney failure, or the common cold, and that you
will not hold Sweet Daddy Lovedrops liable for any injury
up to and including death.

With that out of the way, let’s start a few sets of basic
Gluteal Crunches. To do these effectively, you need to
find somewhere between twenty and one hundred small,
oblong pieces of wood. Doorstops, rulers, chair legs, fence
posts, or whatever else is easy at hand. What you must
do then is to insert one of these objects lengthwise be-
tween your butt cheeks. This will, of course, be uncom-
fortable, but perhaps you should have thought of that
before you went hog-wild on all those Cheetos and the
Butternut-Swirl ice cream treats. Now you must break
the stick. You cannot use your hands or your feet or your
satanic powers. You must use only your gluteal strength.
When this is accomplished, you must pick up the two
pieces of whatever it is that your ass just broke and repeat
the exercise for each of the halves. This you must do
until the rod or baseball bat or whatever else is broken
down into small, easily manageable pieces. Then you
will perform this process again and again until you
simply can’t do it anymore. When you’re covered in
sweat and your ass is full of splinters, you may have
a sip of a “power drink” before you gather up all the
scraps of wood and bringing them to Sweet Daddy
Lovedrop’s house. He uses them in his garden, you see.
Anything you can do to help out Sweet Daddy Lovedrop’s
garden is greatly appreciated.

After a few weeks of this, your ass will be roughly half-way
acceptable. Don’t cut and run yet, though. Don’t try and
weasel out of the only worthwhile thing you’ve ever tried
to do. Oh no, you’ve got more work ahead of you. You’ve
got to get to the point where you can shift a manual
transmission Volkswagen with just your buttcrack and
your steely resolve. This takes time. This takes effort.
Think of Veronica, why don’t you? Of course, she’ll pro-
bably be old and married and driving a minivan by the
time you’re in good enough shape to talk to her, so maybe
you ought to think of all the Veronicas of the future, the
Veronicas that await you in the next life. Aren’t they
pretty? Don’t they deserve all you can give them? Don’t
they deserve to be hit on by someone with a pleasingly-
shaped ass? Don’t they? Why do you always have to be
selfish all the time? How can you go through life thinking
of no one’s needs but your own?

This brings me nicely to the final piece of my easy-to-follow
three point plan:

Step Three: You Need To Enroll In One Of Sweet
Lovedrop’s “Gettin’ Down To Business”
Seminars, Held
Frequently At A Hotel Conference
Room Somewhere Near

Because, honestly, what were you thinking in the first place,
walking up to a stunning, intelligent, decent, and glamorous
creature like Veronica with some dumb line like “Excuse me,
miss, but may I buy you a drink?” You don’t think she hasn’t
heard that eighty-four million times already? Dammit, you
want to stand out in her mind, and not just as that dude with
the ass the size of a Staten Island landfill! If you had been
to one of my informal, casual discussion groups ($195.95
for the half day session, $299.95 for the full day, $650.00
for the deluxe package), you would know never to walk
into Slugger’s armed with such weak shit. Had I been able
to intervene properly in your hideous facade of a lovelife,
you would have known that the best course of action would
be to strut up to Veronica and start pounding the bar with
your fist until you’ve fully captured her attention. Once
this has been achieved, you’d know to say–in the loudest
possible voice so as to prevent any chance of her not hear-
ing, understanding, and believing–something suave, some-
thing subtle, something like this: “Look at you! I don’t care
what you say, I’m going to buy you a Mango-Appletini as a
reward for being The! Sexiest! Woman! In! This! Place!”

Is $195.95 too much to pay for the look of sheer awe that
will spread across Veronica’s flawless face? Is $299.95 too
much to pay for the conversational skills necessary to “seal
the deal” with this wonderful young woman? Is $650.00
too much to pay for a t-shirt that reads “Sweet Daddy
Lovedrops: The Answer To All Those Questions You’re
Too Dumb To Ask”? I’m afraid that, if you’re being honest
with yourself, you must respond in the negative to all those

And isn’t being honest with yourself what romance is all
about? That’s just something for you to ponder right there...

Sweet Daddy Lovedrops has become tired. He is going to
sleep now, but even in an unconscious state he is still
eagerly awaiting your check, money order, or Mastercard/
Visa number. He knows that you will make the right
decision. He knows that you know that you are blind and,
furthermore, he knows that you know that the best way
to not be blind is to admit that he knows what you need
to know.

That is all. Remember, be good to each other.