If I were a boy...
I'd play golf badly while wearing stupid pants.
I'd puff long and hard on cigars and act like it wasn't the least bit phallic.
I'd sip single malt and go all in before the flop on the floor of the Venetian when just a week earlier I was nursing a Mike's Hard Lemonade while pondering a pair of Queens in a four-man game in my buddy's two car garage.
I'd claim to love jazz and secretly hide Ted Nugent's Penetrator album behind my Amazon-compiled Mingus collection when chicks came over.
I'd have long, drawn-out conversations with an especially perky pair of graduate school tits at foreign policy mixers. Netanya who?
I'd sniff yesterday's boxer shorts instead of opting to do today's laundry.
I'd stash Victoria's Secret catalogs and two-year-old Maxim magazines under the bathroom sink for inspiration.
I'd learn how to play that one really sweet song by Death Cab for Cutie on an acoustic six string in hopes of some third base action on the second date.
I'd read Sun Tzu's Art of War and quit my day job to become a day trader in my parents basement.
I'd spend five minutes throwing around dumbbells at the gym and then head to the GNC for a giant tub of protein powder I can keep in full display on my kitchen counter.
I'd feign interest in venturing to the farmer's market for fresh scones and the world's best apricot jam the next morning in hopes she's spend the night and make a whistle out of my morning wood.
I'd claim an old knee injury from my high school football days (as the fourth string cornerback/towel boy) so I wouldn't have to finish the grade three hike at Yosemite.
I'd slap girls on the ass in the middle of an intimate moment and ask them if they liked it.
Well, do ya bitch?
If I were a boy...