For five years I have steadfastly maintained that no dumber man walks the planet than George W. Bush. I’m big enough to admit when I’m wrong. Peter Cook is way dumber than Dubya.
Who’s Peter Cook? Christie Brinkley’s husband—for the time being. Just last week I nominated him for suicide watch when Christie moved out. I blamed her for her series of failed relationships, figuring any man worth his salt would put up with whatever he had to because at the end of the day he’d sleeping with Christie Brinkley. It was beyond my imagination that any man would mistreat her in such a manner to compel her to leave. A direct quote: “Anyone who would do that should be banned from the International Brotherhood of Men forever. Intentionally mistreating Christie Brinkley is like peeing on the Mona Lisa.”
Looks like I was wrong again. Twice in one posting; I’ll have to resist the urge to register Republican. Turns out Peter (an apt moniker) was banging a nineteen-year-old employee of his architectural firm. “I’m stupid,” he said in a statement today.
Stupid isn’t the half of it. You are—soon to be were—married to Christie Brinkley, dumb ass. A woman who looks like Christie isn’t someone you cheat on; she’s someone you cheat with. Maybe Cook thought he could taste the forbidden fruit, get Sissy home before Dad grounded her for missing curfew, and still have time to ride the merry-go-round at Christie’s Fantasyland, enhancing his climax by thinking of all the men who weren’t him.
There’s something about some men that makes them unable to resist younger women. Maybe they’re afraid of their own mortality. Whatever it is, they’re ruled by Lord Priapus (thank you, Tom Wolfe), led around by their probably undersized dicks by whatever fresh conquest looms. They miss out on the best parts of a woman because they’re too involved in the Quest to think about what they’re looking for, or why.
I used to work with a man about fifteen years younger than me. He, too, was into younger women. (Not to mention his third marriage.) Considering his age at the time—thirty-two—I assumed he’d given up on bars, and was looking for his next ex by going to confirmation parties and bat mitzvahs.
“You know what’s cool?” he said. “You find a young girl, and she’ll do stuff because she doesn’t know it’s dirty.”
“You know what’s really cool?” I said. “You find an older woman who likes it.” I couldn’t have confused him more if I had tried to explain Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle.
What did Peter Cook and his chickie talk about after sex? Back-to-school shopping? The Homecoming dance? Zit medication? I’m as much a pig as the next guy; I like girls. A lot. I like women better. How to tell them apart? A girl is someone you just want to sleep with; a woman is someone you want to wake up with. It’s obvious Peter Cook isn’t awake yet.
As for my comments about Christie (“how wack must she be?”), a thousand apologies. I stand ready to sooth your hurt feelings in any way possible, which is a considerable number, since you’re on The List. As long as it doesn’t involve spending money. A man’s got to have standards.