Free I'm Not Gonna Lie by George Lopez Page B

me?”
    â€œShe says . . .”
    The pet psychic stopped, then nodded as if she were listening to someone giving her complicated instructions. She began again.
    â€œShe says she’s sorry that she was such a nuisance when you came home. She wants to apologize for barking so much and for running around and around your feet like a lunatic.”
    This was uncanny. How could she know that? Every word the pet psychic said was absolutely true.
    â€œThat’s okay,” I said. “Tell her it’s okay. I might’ve jumped or yelled a little bit at the time when she nipped my toes, but I’m over it.”
    â€œYou yelled at her?” my girlfriend said.
    â€œNo. Not at all. Not really. I might’ve raised my voice a little bit. She was biting my toes. I didn’t want her chewing up my nail polish, choking, and dying. I guess it wouldn’t have mattered. . . .”
    â€œThere’s something else.” The pet psychic jammed her eyes shut and scowled. “I’m getting something with . . . golf clubs.”
    I moved forward in my chair. “Golf clubs?”
    â€œYes. I see a bunch of golf clubs lined up against a wall.”
    I had to keep myself from leaping out of the chair.
    In my house I keep several golf clubs lined up against the wall.
    How could she know
that
?
    â€œWell, that’s . . . amazing,” I said. “You’ve never been to my house, but you’re right: I have a lot of golf clubs lined up against the wall.”
    I could feel my girlfriend looking at me, but I was too freaked out to look at her. The pet psychic stifled a small chuckle. “Golf, yes, of course. She wanted to go with you.”
    â€œWith me? To play golf? The dog?”
    â€œYes.”
    Talk about irony. My girlfriend hated when I played, but her dog wanted to go with me. The dog loved golf. That little cute, adorable puppy loved
golf.
    â€œMaybe we should’ve put golf clothes on her instead of dresses. Knickers like Payne Stewart. A tiny golf cap. Little cleats . . .”
    We both started crying then, my girlfriend’s tears flowing as a release, my tears coming from picturing me with the Chihuahua dressed in a tiny golf outfit on the first tee at Pebble Beach. Lee Trevino would’ve fallen over.
    â€œMy baby,” my girlfriend said through her tears.
    â€œFore,” I said through mine.

SEX AT FIFTY OR . . . FRIGHT NIGHT

SEX after fifty is a whole new ball game.
    In many ways, it’s better.
    When I was younger, I would do anything to get laid.
    Actually, that’s not true.
    I would do anything for the
possibility
that I might get laid.
    As soon as Friday came, I would prepare for my night out, and I’d obsess over every detail like I was a general planning a war. I’d think where to meet someone to get laid, who to get laid with, what to wear, what to say, and how to act. Should I try to be cool? Funny? Aloof? Interested? Bored? Should I channel Marlon Brando (ultra cool and tough), Richard Pryor (hilarious and sensitive), or Richard Lewis (neurotic and Jewish)? Hey, I’d do whatever it took.
    I paid special attention to my appearance, not the least of my concerns being . . .
    How should I smell? Should I go with your basic manly scent and just use Lava? Or should I roll on Axe? Or do women really prefer men who dab on English Leather? What about my hair? Should I go with the wet look, blown dry, or sculpted with product? And how about clothes? Always a challenge. I’d open my closet door, whip through my clothes like a maniac, and start to sweat. So many decisions, so many choices, so much pressure.
    In the end, none of my preparation or worrying mattered. As I told you, I wasn’t all that successful with women. I’m lying. I went, like, zero for my twenties and two for my thirties.
    As I got older, I gained more confidence and I got luckier. Strange how