one-track minds, just different transit lines

A long time ago some aunt, grandmother, or maybe Sister Ellen in fourth grade, intoned to my tender (then) virginal ears: "Men replace, women mourn." This is in reference to that most blisteringly joyful of experiences, the breakup. Now, men may indeed feel the dire need to stick their Johnson into every girl's business, and women may indeed feel the dire need to stick their spoon into every Ben and Jerry's, but that's just the trailer. We all wanna get nomal; boys are just too damn impatient. They're at the bar, sucking on the teat of a Heinie or Coronita, their eyes anxiously scanning the horizon for their female oasis. Nice legs, nice ass, a butter-face, but hell, she aint coming home to meet the folks. Wham, bam--uh, that was fun last night, um, I'll call ya later, 'K? Onto the next bar, the next beer, the next booty--aw fuck, what's that weird rash?!?
We girls may seem lame, snuffling into our hot chocolate while watching Steel Magnolias, but we aint dead, and we certainly aint blind. We're cooking up some scheme, an intricate plot that involves Colin Farrell, a strip club with yours truly as the star act, and you stuck having to watch Colin get the best lap dance of his life. OK, so that fantasy may have to go straight to video. But here's a little peek behind the curtain: after the requisite two weeks of mourning, we change out of our sweats and do all those things you begged us to do at a guy's house near you--your best friend.