I generally grab it with both hands, squeeze a little, give it a good shake, then hold it close to my nose and sniff.
Oh … yeah.
How else does one choose the ideal cantaloupe? When the color’s a perfect beige with just a hint of green, the seeds slosh freely inside and the fragrance is absolutely heady …
Wait a minute! That polluted gray matter separating your ears thought I was talking about something else, didn’t it? Shame on you!
Although, on second thought, I suppose we can choose those in almost exactly the same manner. I say almost only because — despite what my doxxie-girl Lilli advises — one does not judge the human male by first sniffing his butt.
Guys — in my never-ending quest to help you improve yourselves, I’m going to share with you the secret of what elicits that collective breathless sigh as you walk past a group of us. And those of you who have grown accustomed to the not-so-breathless laughter that follows in your wake?
Hahahahahahahaha (didn’t want you to feel left out).
First, all those Winston ads from your youth lied to you: it’s not “what’s up front that counts.” Once we get beyond whether you’re right-handed or left-handed (word has it that lefties are
better more creative kissers), we couldn’t care less. We’re far more interested in what you’re packing in that trunk behind you, honey. Seriously, do you think we suffer football with you for any reason other than the huddles?
Go stand in the mirror and drop your trousers. Go on; don’t be shy. I’ll wait. Now turn around …
Is what you see there high and round? Is it standing at attention just beneath your waist — conveniently at reach-out-and-touch height? Or is it just loitering somewhere in the vicinity of your knees? Good Lord! Can you even see it — or are your shorts flapping in the breeze where it should have been? If we reach out to give it an appreciative pat, will our palms come back confused and empty-handed? Will we find its photo in the dairy aisle of our local supermarket?
When you’re dressed, do your perfectly tailored slacks hug your waist and the top of that tight double melon, then fall in a dead drop from that exquisite leather belt (that we just love to hook our fingers beneath), breaking ever so gently at your instep? Or do your ratty jeans hover six inches below your waist, flashing us your flabby pasty-white-never-seen-the-sun buns (feel free to substitute ‘blacker-than-Grandma’s-iron-skillet’ butt; we are, after all, equal opportunity ass-ficionados)? Is its wide capillaried expanse broken only by the hairy crevice running down the middle?
By the way, guys, what’s up with that? The crotch of your pants is designed to match the crotch of you! Duh! It was never intended to be the bridge that joins your knees! Jeez — pull your pants up! You’re not showing us anything we’ve never seen before. In fact, in most cases, you’re not showing us anything re-runs of which we ever want to see again.
At least not before lunch.
Or too soon after it.
So what’s the verdict? Are yours firm and oh so squeezably soft? Can you wedge a walnut between your cheeks and crack it? Will our pupils dilate, our jaws drop and our breath rush from our bodies as you pass us on the street?
Or will we heave helplessly until the chunks are all gone and we collapse in a fit of laughter?
The choice is yours.