Bright lights, big city, single guy: tedious debut from performer and fringe TV personality Mebus.
Dating in New York is really weird, especially when you’re, like, totally haunted by memories of the first woman you ever really loved. She who shall be known as the Eater of Souls had her faults, but there was nothing quite like those lazy mornings in bed with her. Still, David realizes he just isn’t happy and breaks up via e-mail. Babes of Manhattan, brace yourself: this gutless wonder is a free man and he’s looking for love! Mostly in the wrong places, of course, and talking a mile a minute. Does someone with such a talent for soliloquies actually need anyone to listen? Is anyone listening? David sure hopes he doesn’t pine for the wooden mannequins in the 86th Street Victoria’s Secret window for the rest of his life. Ha-ha. Ha-ha. Get it? Pine. Wooden. But they’re made of plaster or something. Ha-ha. Did he say that? No. The rat-a-tat-tat of postadolescent one-liners has a deadening, woodpecker rhythm—and speaking of peckers, David’s little mister is lonely. Whoops, did he say that? Huh-uh. But he says a lot of stuff like that, channeling Beavis and Butthead through a downtown state of mind. Doing shots in dive bars with best buds is fun, but not as much fun as getting laid. Hey, how about her, the Goddess? Yeah. Wow. Maybe she wants to listen to David talk. She looks nice. She looks even nicer when he’s really, really drunk. But then, so do the mannequins at the 86th Street Victoria’s Secret. Life sucks. Love is hell.
A medical first: a male writer with Bridget Jones Disease.