No, you kiss altogether wrong, honey. Me, I’ve got lips like velvet curtains and a tongue that can tickle a popcorn husk loose from your molars and still come out tasting like a scoop of ripe honeydew. So don’t talk to me about kissing. “Only the Lonely,” The Motels

I’ve actually seen eyes without a face. They look exactly like ping pong balls, only more gelatinous. And, y’know, a little bit confused…

Come on feel the what’s this now…?

See? That’s precisely why I moved to the southwest. When we sit on the stony ground out in these parts, we do it with cold beers and grilled buffalo steaks. Not lemonade, cigarettes, and an assful of frostbite. No wonder you people are so goddamned miserable all the time… Dream Academy, “Life in a Northern Town” (which I must admit I really do dig). *** for this dude.

No. In fact I’m perfectly straight. And stop calling me “Johnny” already, would you please? That’s not my name and you know it. Josie Cotton, “Johnny Are You Queer, Boy?” From the Valley Girl soundtrack, and elsewhere.

Fine. You’re wonderfully wonderfully wonderfully wonderfully pretty. But the fact remains, I’m a married man, so if you’re that desperate to have your, er, love cat stroked, you’re just going to have to do it yourself, okay…? (…Having said that, there’s no law that says I can’t watch, should you choose to go that route…)… “Love Cats,” The Cure.

You go ahead and jump. Me, I’m fine here on the couch with a bag of barbecue pork rinds and the elastic waistband on my sweatpants, thank you very much.

What in the fuck is a luftballoon…?

Okay, fine, I’ll stroke you, geez. But is it really so difficult to ask me nicely…? “The Stroke,” Billy Squier **** For Ace of Spades HQ

Okay, if you insist. But all things being equal, I’d prefer to walk like an Italian. Because in addition to being just so friggin’ cool, Italians can splash enough Drakkar over themselves to choke a Chamber Orchestra — and without even a hint of irony. And that’s, like, always been a dream of mine…