Non-Sexual Date with Mr. George Clooney
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."
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.
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?"
"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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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!"
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."
in the limo, sprawled out on the seats, Mr. George Clooney instructs
his driver, "Take us to the Standard."
up?" I ask.
George Clooney pulls out a couple of Cubans and a bottle of Glenmorangie
Single Malt Scotch Whisky. "A little nightcap, pimp."
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?"
George Clooney holds up his glass and says, "Fuckin' A, bitch."
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."
as the limo pulls away, one thought immediately rushes to my head:
"Damn it! Maybe I should have had sex with him."
version for easy reading
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