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My Non-Sexual Date with Mr. George Clooney
By Kirk Pynchon

Yeah, I've got a man crush on Mr. George Clooney, what of it? A lot of you guys out there do too, so shut your pie hole. And if you don't have a man crush on him, then it might be some other celebrity, athlete, or even politician (though that's a little too kinky for me). One of my closest friends admitted that he has a huge man crush on Brad Pitt and wanted to spend an entire day with him getting high, eating Bugles, and watching cartoons. To which I replied, "You're gay. My date with Mr. George Clooney is so much cooler."

Before we begin, let me emphasize the "non-sexual" portion of the date. There would be no sex with Mr. George Clooney. I would never have sex with a man, with the exception of Michael Jordan, and even then it's only because of what he has done for the game of basketball. Besides, I want Mr. George Clooney to respect me, not just think of me as a hot piece of ass.

So here's how it would go. Mr. George Clooney calls me up in the morning, say around nine or nine fifteen and says, "Hey, it's C-Money. Wanna hang today, playa?"

I say, "Sure, bro," and within twenty minutes a limo pulls up to my place to pick me up. In the limo waiting for me is Mr. George Clooney with bagels, cream cheese and fresh orange juice. As we eat and talk, the limo takes us to the LA Fitness Center, where Mr. George Clooney has rented out the gym for the morning.

At the gym we play full court, five-on-five basketball with some of Mr. George Clooney's friends, as well as some NBA stars, past and present. In attendance are Mark Wahlberg, LeBron James, Sam Rockwell, Isiah Thomas, Larry Bird, Rasheed Wallace, Denzel Washington and, for some reason, Carrot Top. Mr. George Clooney and I play on the same team and we are great together. We control the game, we give and go, we pick and roll -- we communicate without speaking. Thanks to the two of us, our team wins every game, and after each victory Mr. George Clooney shouts, "We the motherfucking ballers in this motherfucking house! Game recognize game, bitches!" Everyone there gives us our props, and tells us we should play in two-man tournaments together. We laugh heartily and shake our heads.

Now it's time for lunch. Mr. George Clooney takes me back to his house where we eat a healthy meal of grilled chicken breasts, couscous, and wild green salad with citrus vinaigrette. We talk about our families, our interests and our backgrounds. And, of course, we talk about the ladies and all of our sexual exploits over the years. It gets a little randy, but by the end of lunch we are doubled over in hysterics about how, when counted up, we have slept with nearly nine thousand women combined! "Shit! That is a lot of goddamn pussy!" Mr. George Clooney exclaims. Good times.

Next we go to Burke William's Spa for a little down time. We part ways in the lobby, with Mr. George Clooney joking, "Don't ask for a spitty when you're done, playa. It ain't that type of party," and saying we'll meet up later after our treatments. I receive a Thai massage, a foot scrub, a soothing soak in the whirlpool followed by a quick, invigorating jump into the cold pool. I meet up with Mr. George Clooney in the eucalyptus steam room. As we sweat it out we don't say a fucking word to each other. Why? Because we don't need to. We appreciate the silence and respect each other's personal space too much to ruin the moment with a bunch of yakking.

Refreshed and rejuvenated, we go back to Mr. George Clooney's crib, hang out in his screening room and watch the director's cut of The Warriors on the big screen. We analyze each scene, talk about what we like, and what we'd do different. We even quote our favorite lines back and forth to each other. But mostly we just soak in the cinematic violence that is The Warriors. We replay the fight scene against The Baseball Furies over and over again, and at the end, high five. "Fuck those punk ass bitches up!" Mr. George Clooney yells every time he watches it.

As it is now heading into evening, Mr. George Clooney asks me, "Bitch, you hungry?" I say, "Hell yeah!" and Mr. George Clooney responds, "Good, cause I'm taking your ass out to Morton's for a big fuckin' steak dinner. So you better get your grub on." We get dressed up in our best suits (both Mr. George Clooney and myself are of the conviction that you must dress up when you go to a steakhouse -- to do anything less would mean you're acting like a bitch), and hop back into the limo, pumped up for the huge meal ahead.

At Morton's we sit in a booth way in the back of the restaurant. We order a bottle of 1985 Opus One Cabernet Franc and polish it off before the waiter even comes to take our order. And let me tell you something, when we order, we order like men. I start off with the Blue Point oysters on the half shell, the spinach salad, followed by the double cut filet mignon with a side of steamed fresh asparagus. Mr. George Clooney goes completely old school and gets the lobster bisque, the caesar salad, The New York Strip ("rare" he says, "bloody like Scarface"), with the creamed spinach. We eat like kings, relishing every bite.

Just as supper is finished and I think I can't eat another thing, the waiter comes over with not one, but two plates of Morton's legendary Hot Chocolate Cake. I look at Mr. George Clooney, incredulous. "There's no way I can finish one of these by myself, dude!"

Mr. George Clooney says, "You have to. Sharing dessert is for ho's." Then he smiles and says, "Besides, I know you like chocolate like a motherfucker."

Back in the limo, sprawled out on the seats, Mr. George Clooney instructs his driver, "Take us to the Standard."

"What's up?" I ask.

Mr. George Clooney pulls out a couple of Cubans and a bottle of Glenmorangie Single Malt Scotch Whisky. "A little nightcap, pimp."

Up on the roof of the Standard Hotel, it's just him, the stogies, the single malt, and me. It's a beautiful, breezy night as we gaze out on the City of Angels. I look over at Mr. George Clooney and say, "It doesn't get any better than this, does it, my man?"

Mr. George Clooney holds up his glass and says, "Fuckin' A, bitch."

So now it's getting late and we are satiated, fulfilled, and content. During the limo ride home we polish off the bottle of Glenmorangie while listening to John Coltrane's "Giant Steps". We talk about our careers, our aspirations, and our dreams -- you know, trying to connect on a deeper level. We realize that though we are completely different people, we are actually one in the same. We arrive at my place and Mr. George Clooney gives me a pound and says, "Thanks for a great day, homie. You are my boy for life. You truly are the coolest motherfucker I have ever met."

And as the limo pulls away, one thought immediately rushes to my head: "Damn it! Maybe I should have had sex with him."

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