As you'll no doubt recall from last week, the Hollywood executive I was working for was having a terribly difficult time determining who to hire as his new assistant. Clearly I was not in the running because the shape of posterior didn't say "I'm perfectly capable of doing the same job I've been doing for you for the last month." And if the dimensions of my badonkadonk weren't problematic enough, I didn't offer that dreamy "come hither" look when I printed out and delivered his call sheet.
So I was left simply to witness him agonize over what to do. One had "bedroom eyes" while the other had a better looking rear. He pondered and mulled. He cogitated and ruminated. His analysis made Sophie's Choice look easier than that of a North Korean voter. But he persevered. And then, in an epiphany that can only be compared to Archimedes early understanding the correlation between mass and volume, he'd reached a decision. So I will tell you in his exact words of his conclusion:"I picked the blond. What's her name again?"The Socratic Method, as always, delivers the goods.
[Note: Socrates was found guilty of corrupting youth and was put to death by drink hemlock.]
1 comment:
You have got to be kidding me? SMH.
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