Ask Dayton 94 – Pretty Fly for An Old Guy
Dear Sweet Dayton,
As I sit here to ask you a question for “some” of the men in my fleet, and that shall not be named due to embarrassment of them because they don’t have the balls to ask you themselves…the question is, how do you stay “SO PRETTY?”
Sincerely, with big hugs and kisses,
I’ve been called a lot of things in the course of the many years I’ve spent wandering this little blue-brown pebble we all call home, but I’m almost certain that “pretty” isn’t on that list. If the word is ever used to describe me at all, it’s usually a precursor to something else. For example, “pretty sneaky, or “pretty dickish thing to say,” or “pretty shifty son of a bitch or “pretty evil mother fucker.”
You know, the usual.
I consider myself to be an average guy – average build, average looks, average personality. Wait, check that. I actually think I have a fucking awesome personality, a razor sharp wit and a wicket sense of humor, but magazines at the grocery store checkout seem to convey the notion that none of these things matter so far as trying to date is concerned. I mean, they turn up on surveys and shit, but in actual practice? Yeah, not so much.
Not that I’m bitter, or anything.
Anyway, I’m not afraid to admit that anyone of any gender might find me aesthetically pleasing on any level is somewhat gratifying. Why? Because like most humans, I’m a vain asshole, even at some rudimentary level, and accompanying that is a need to be accepted or at least not overtly shunned by other members of my species. So, “Huzzah!” and all that.
As for how I maintain this level of “so pretty?” I honestly don’t know. I mean, I suppose at least some portion of how one looks has to be tied in some way to how they feel, and I’m pretty comfortable with myself. I don’t feel “old,” even for my age, and certainly don’t think I look my age. For those who don’t know how old I am, how old do you think I am, based on how you see me act? Go on, take a moment to throw out your guesses. I’ll wait.
:: waiting ::
Okay, so the answer is that I’m closing in on my 47th birthday. But, I don’t feel 47. Don’t get me wrong: I’ve had my share of days where I’ve been ridden hard and put away wet, and definitely not in the fun way, and I’m certainly not going to give some dude half my age a run for his money, but the important thing is that I don’t feel old. I suppose a large part of that is attitude. I’m having a lot of fun these days…way more than I was having twenty or even ten years ago. A large part of that is credited to my kids, who never fail to make me laugh, or make me want to continually find ways to make them laugh. Another aspect is that I’m simply doing things I never thought I’d do, going places I thought I’d never visit or see, and meeting people I never thought I’d encounter, and I’m enjoying pretty much every minute of that. I don’t know if any of it translates to staying “so pretty,” but I suppose it works for me.
But, wait: I can hear someone shouting, “Seriously, Dayton?” from the rafters. “That’s all you’ve got? You don’t feel old? Wow, that’s exciting. Come on, dude. Give us something juicy.”
I suppose you could chalk up at least some of my okay looks and age-defying success to the fact that I feed on the souls of my vanquished enemies. Yes, that’s right: After I defeat them in battle, I take their souls, grind them up, then mix them in a blender with some vanilla powder, bananas, crushed ice, and rum. If I’m feeling particularly daring, I might stick a slice of pineapple on the rim of the glass.
Oh, and not for nothing, but ground up souls make for a pretty decent dry rub when you’re grilling steaks.
So, with respect to this apparent cabal of anonymous admirers? Feel free to direct them to my wish list over at Amazon.com I mean, that complete Star Wars Blu-ray set ain’t gonna buy itself, right?