Booty Call Text Message

Last night, while I was basking in the beautiful LED glow of an HD episode of 24: Season 8 playing on my MacBook, I received an unexpected text message from a male stripper I made out with back in December, on the eve of my very first trip to the ER for alcohol poisoning. He wanted to know if I was "still cute." I told him I thought so. This, while Jack Bauer was contemplating whether or not to assassinate Russian President Suvarov and risk starting a nuclear holocaust in an unprecedented moment of suspense. Let me just pat myself on the back right now for my skills at multitasking.

After all the perfunctory "what have you been up to lately?" chitchat was exhausted, Mr. Eastern European sausage dancer then cut to the chase and asked me if he could come over. 

I didn't respond. If there's one thing I've learned from my almost pathological consumption of 24 over the past five years (Jesus is to Christians what Jack Bauer is to me), it's that some requests don't deserve an answer. Did Jack Bauer respond when enemy combatants threatened to Taser his nipples if he didn't reveal that's he's really an undercover agent working for the government rather than an independent German arms dealer operating out of Asia? Well, kind of...he told them to go to hell. 

Of course he didn't give in. Nipples have no function in men. He had them to spare.

 

I, on the other hand, thought silence would be a much more telling response. I'd rather be lonely on a Thursday night during my walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Singledom than be pathetic enough to respond to a booty call text message. In the words of Cher from Clueless, the quintessential babe philosopher: As if.