The other day I had the pleasure of going to lunch with a 900-year old man. I arrived at the restaurant early and told the hostess I'd sit at the table and wait. She suggested a small, half-moon shaped love nest. Ummm, no. "A bit too cozy. I'm eating lunch with Hugh Hefner." She didn't get it. Not, at least, until a couple minutes later when my date walked in.
I shit you not that 2 minutes into our conversation, Hef ceases speech, looks at me dramatically and tells me not to scrunch my forehead and that I need botox. Hello Mr. Kettle. Hello Mr. Pot.
I shit you not that 2 minutes into our conversation, Hef ceases speech, looks at me dramatically and tells me not to scrunch my forehead and that I need botox. Hello Mr. Kettle. Hello Mr. Pot.
He then tells me that he's on a strict diet because he's at 143 pounds and he wants to be at 140. I tell him that he's not much bigger than me. I weigh 115.
Him: No you don't. You weigh 102 at the ver most.
Me: No, I look like I do, but I have a lot of muscle
Him: No, you're 102
Me: Okay.
We end the lunch with him asking about the difference between PR and advertising. In order to understand what we do in PR, he gives me this up-to-date example:
"Up until 1921 butter was sold in one pound blocks. Finally the blocks were split into the four sticks that we buy now." He's very excited about this by the way. "At that point, the publicist would send out a press release and tell the world about the four sticks?"
You got it buddy.
Obviously I'm quite the conversationalist, because he called me the next day to ask me out for another date. Details to come.
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2 comments:
Lordy.
Impressive hobnobbing going on there. Kudos to you.
I could make a comment about him probably knowing the weight of a lot of young women, but that would be improper of me.
The day a date tries to play the Carnival step-right-up-so-I-can-guess-your-weight game is the day I officially commit murder. And for the record, no man should weigh 140 unless he stands three feet tall.
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