Coming to the Surreal Life This Summer

As at least two of you know, I am a famous sociologist. My post Solving a Great Mystery of the Ages has won numerous awards, a Pulitzer, and was short-listed for a Nobel Peace Prize, due to its role in resolving the "No he didn' jus' touch me there!" subway riots last March. I did the graduation rounds, proudly receiving 4 honorary doctorates and a Mug o' Meat (from the University of Texas, of course). It's been a time of honor.

However, with honor comes expectation. My publicist, publisher, and a pub owner have all insisted I get to work on another fabulous theory explaining male behavior. With such a brilliant beginning, none of us could imagine the shame that would so soon engulf my once famous existence.

I delved into the enigmatic hidden recess of male sexuality. The research question was so fundamental that I expected a book deal, the talk show circuit and a late-night USA movie: Why do men choose the partners they choose?

It was a puzzler. I investigated pairings throughout the world. From the tall guy with super short woman to the fat woman with skinny man, I interviewed all the couples who perplex modern thought - even Josie and the pussycat. Then I turned to history. As with my discovery of the reasons behind breast fondling, I expected the anthropologic record to hold the secret.

The Eureka! moment came not long after I began my investigation of 3rd century Mongolia. "I have found it!" I yelled to my little cat, who had stretched out unashamedly in a typically male fashion. "Men choose partners based on who their friends would find attractive!"

Immediately, my forehead furrowed as I recognized the circular logic. I pulled out my charts. Every coupling now made sense, except that I had no predictive value! My efforts were nearly as useless as pigeon research (see note below)!

Despondent, I came home from my office in the Robinsons May shoe department. I turned up the radio and began to write depressed journal entries about the woes of science.

My roommate had been sighing about the house for several days. Seeing my equivalent mood, she decided to share.

"Is he ever going to ask me out?" she whined a bit.

"Who?" I'm a really caring roommate, so I had no idea she was in love. "The guy who fixed your computer?"

She nodded. "Nope," I responded. "You're out of the sex pool."

"What?! But he's here ALL the time. We talk constantly! We get each other! It's just like Two Weeks Notice!"

"Silly rabbit. Flix are for girls," I explained. "He fixed your computer while you sat on the bed. He barely looked at you. Then he took your car to the shop rather than pretend he could fix it himself. Very asexual behavior. I'm a famous sociologist. You should believe me."

"So, whose sex pool am I in, then?" she replied haughtily. People get so offended by scientific fact.

"Don't know. My theory doesn't have predictive value."

She huffed off. An hour later, I was watching Anti-Social, the cable network for scientists, when the story broke.

"Next on Somewhere! Famed sociologist, G-Lo, unable to predict male behavior." Stupid roommate sold me out for $300 and an interview with Al Roker.

A letter slid under my door, rejecting my bid for sainthood. The next thing I knew, little scientists had come to take away all my trophies, awards, and degrees. I was left with nothing but a useless theory.

I did what any red-blooded American would do. I called my publicist to schedule reality TV shows. Tune in this summer to see MC Hammer, Andy Griffith, Linda Lovelace and I struggle to run a diabetes camp in the Ozarks.

Next time, I think I'll just stick with figuring out the laws of the universe. Ever so much simpler.


Note: Polo Dude, you know I love you! Good luck with your dissertation. I'm sending good "vibes" your way.