The one that got away
But there’s still time, Arnie
Netflix set me up with Arnold Schwarzenegger last week and it went great. I binged on his documentary, and then, as I do after all dates, I stalked him online for hours. And I liked everything I saw.
Now, whilst I can’t say that I’m in love with him (or that he’s in love with me…yet), I do think we probably could have had a fling back in the ’70s, if only I’d been alive. It’s frustrating when you know that you could have hooked up with someone famous, but that not being born yet stopped that fate from transpiring. Why did the universe do that to me and Mr. Universe?
So I watched Arnie’s documentary, fascinated by him and the other giant men at the bodybuilding competitions. My eyes were fixated on their bulging bodies and their manhoods, which were squished into toddlers’ underpants. There was a time when I wouldn’t have looked at a man who wasn’t hanging long and loose, but now, after seeing a bronzed Arnie flexing his goods on stage, I kinda get it.
With all the testosterone they take, I suppose bodybuilders’ penises are capable of things that the usual, boring ones can only dream of. Perhaps when they’re released from those miniature pants, they unfold and flop onto the floor like a cartoon tongue. And then, pumped with steroids, they’re able to snake around, looking for something to do. This would explain how Arnie got his housekeeper pregnant when he was married.
My theory on this is that Arnie was asleep, exhausted after competing, when his penis whispered “I’ll be back” and went slithering around the house before falling into the housekeeper. I know Arnold’s wife didn’t take it well, but I challenge you to find a man who hasn’t gotten his housekeeper pregnant.
If I were Southside-Dublin-Mom-Schwarzenegger, I would have overlooked it. And that would only be fair because, after all, if we were married, Arnold would have to turn a blind eye to my many, many inevitable marital indiscretions. There’d be that time with Danny DeVito behind the polar seabirds exhibit at the zoo. Danny likes it when the penguins watch.
Afterwards, of course, I’d apologise to my super-star husband but would explain that being married to a movie star was lonely and that I had Southside-Dublin-mom needs, so what else was I to do? And I’d plead with him not to take his jealousy out on Danny who is, after all, only human (but a beast in the sack).
I’d fit in so well in LA, driving around in my SUV, talking in a whiney voice on speakerphone to my chef through pumped-up lips that permanently look like they’re blowing someone a kiss. But I’d earn my keep; I wouldn’t just be a sexy middle-aged-trophy wife, no, I’d release a sex tape, or advertise adult nappies, or both, possibly at the same time. Then I’d get my own Netflix documentary and leave millions of men wishing they were going on dates with me.
