Dear Lost,
Unlike some women, I have no trouble meeting men whom I'm attracted to. I dig cops, and there's always a cop around when I need one. I can usually find a looker at the local bar where they hang out and score meth, the Tarnished Shield. If I don't feel a cop there, I just veer diagonally across busy intersections until one catches my eye.
I thought I'd experienced the full range of lawman lovin' until I met Brad. He was the cop to beat all cops, and several unarmed civilians as well.
It wasn't in the Tarnished Shield that I met him, but another Costa Mesa bar I frequent, Blow's Clown Lounge (their matchbooks read, “Come to Blow's”). He was working undercover, but I could tell by the way he packed his heat that he was all cop.
I gave him a come-hither look, and hither he came, with a pickup line I never tire of hearing:
“Will you be my heroin mule?”
“Maybe, if you pack me right. Is that a Glock .380, or are you just glad to see me?”
“Both.”
A couple of Bloody Rodneys later, we repaired to the back seat of his Crown Victoria, where he entered me without a warrant. Woo, momma! Was he the best I ever had? Let's just say that Brad is the man who put the dick in interdiction.
Irrational bongos toiled in the distance as he urged me on: “C'mon, baby, squeeze me tighter than a doughnut hole!”
When we came, my eyes rolled right back in my head.
“You know, like that, your peepers look like two cocktail onions. You're just another badge groupie, aren't you?” Brad asked, with a disdainful laugh, suddenly Mr. Cold Steel. I felt like a trampled gardenia, but I wasn't going to show it.
“Yeah? Well, I faked my orgasm.”
“That's okay. I faked putting my condom on.”
He'd played me like a violin. No, more like a tambourine, really. Meanwhile, the bongos had stopped. I looked up to see five Latin percussionists staring in the windows at us. While Brad gave them what-for with his pepper spray and nightstick, I gathered my clothes and slipped away.
I haven't seen him since. He didn't even give me his badge number, but I feel I have to see him again, that under his smug Kevlar exterior there beats a heart as true as English oak just waiting to cry its sap out to the right woman. Please tell me how to get through to him.
Ina Tizzy
Costa Mesa Dear Ms. Tizzy, In the '60s, we used to have a name for women who slept with “The Man.” Was it “The Woman”? I can't remember; it was so much hash oil ago. How do you like the ride in the Crown Victoria? Would it make a goodOC Weekly fleet car? With one of those mesh barriers between the front and back seats, it would really cut down on the interstaff hitting. As for Brad, sorry, but I think it's time you wake up and sell the coffee. He just needed to dunk his doughnut, and you were a handy cup. If he really wanted you, don't you think you'd be wearing his cuffs by now? Men like him are only married to their jobs, much as they might like to cheat on it. Maybe you should switch to vector-control officers. Don't laugh; it takes a lot of man to stand up to mosquitoes day in and day out.
Dear Lost,
I'd sure like to win that dream date with Commie Girl. Can you give me any tips to put me at the head of the pack?
Chris Isaak
San Francisco Sorry, Chris, You're out of luck. With all that trendy nightclubbing Commie Girl does, you might think she was after some suave guy with money and a centaur-like physique, but you'd be wrong. I've known Commie Girl since she was a Commie Toddler, and her heart is with the struggling proletariat, the lumpy people who cling to the background as the trendsetting glitterati sweep by. Give Commie Girl a steamy carpet cleaner smelling of Scotchgard, a plumber-butted Norge repairman, a simple bootblack, a fish-headed Dave Alvin. That to her is royalty enow. But if you must attempt winning her heart anyway, try this line: “Dear Commie Girl, I think I should win the date with you because I think thy lips are like two ripe pomegranates; the sweat of thy noble brow the leaven for my bread. The cigarette butts you strew in your wake are like diamonds cast playfully into a sea of deepest absinthe. Were I to win you, would that I could be so light of heart when I cast you away, for so I must do. One night with you ensanguined in your once-chaste sheets would be an eternity of bliss for me, yet how could I partake when even such moist paradise couldn't dull my sympathy for the downtrodden masses who will never know such joy? Until the day unseen when mankind casts off the shackles of heinous employment, until all men can have you, I shall not. But I will help myself to a couple of beers in your fridge. Your friend in solidarity, Chris.”
Dear Lost,
I recall reading that your favorite sinful pleasure was eating a Snickers bar in the shower. I, too, want to push my senses to the limit, but I can't bring myself to eat corporate junk food. Any suggestions?
Butterfly Strumpholz
Humboldt Fortunately for you, Butterfly, there have been recent breakthroughs in the Snickerization of health-food products. The popular Balance Bar brand has recently unveiled its New Balance Gold Bar. The wrapper copy includes: “the triple-layer energy bar,” “caramel nut blast,” “hunger satisfaction” and “tastes like a candy bar!” All that to tell you it's a healthy Snickers, which is how it was introduced at a recent health-food convention. Does it taste like a Snickers? Maybe like a Snickers from a planet with a stronger field of gravity. The Balance Gold has a dense, compressed mouth feel, with little of the Snickers' nougat airiness that interacts so well with shower spray. Flavorwise, I think they also went a little heavy on the dl-alpha-tocopherol acetate. A better bet might be the less-touted peanut-butter nut flavor, Think! Divine bar, featuring the purported memory enhancer gingko biloba (wasn't that Stallone's wife's name in those Rocky pictures?). They evidently are getting their nougat from the same Black Hills nougat mines that the Snickers folks use, and you can really taste the difference. The outer layer of chocolate has a lower melting point, though, so the Think! Divine bar may only be suitable for those refreshing cold showers that so spruce up a summer afternoon.
Dear Lost,
Can you explain Bjorking to me?
Robert Bjork
Charlottesville, Virginia Sure thing, Bob. “Bjorking” is a term gaining some currency in the renascent coke scene. It refers to a snorting preference attributed to someone named Bjork. You might presume it's the pixyish Icelandic singer, but hold on there. Just because this snorting preference entails pouring the coke on, and snorting therefrom, a particularly inconvenient portion of the human anatomy that might only occur to a person from a land where the sun don't shine, let's not jump to conclusions. Unless you are incredibly nimble, I believe Bjorking requires two people; three if you need someone to operate your video cam. This can get expensive, so check to see if the procedure is covered by your health plan.
