I could swear I’ve heard something like this once or twice before:
There is a secret to charming women into bed. A skill to loosening bra straps and inhibitions. A technique which drives normally sensible women to take risks. What is more enduring than a man’s rippling six pack? More effective than the tightest set of buns? This secret weapon, if deployed correctly, gives men direct, unimpeded access into the underwear of the female of the species.
A man lucky enough to possess this magical element will find the process of wooing women far less traumatic than his more modestly endowed contemporaries.
It’s called a “sense of humour.” Never mind hoo-ha stimulation, if you can massage her funny bone in just the right way, she’ll be begging you for more.
As news goes, this isn’t. I wrote back in ’07:
[W]omen, almost unanimously, demand men with a “sense of humor,” which undoubtedly explains all the girlfriends Gilbert Gottfried has stolen away from Eric Bana.
And while I have no doubt that some women pay more attention to hee-hee than to hoo-ha, the number of same camped out on my porch has remained at zero for the last decade or so, which tells me that either my implementation of said sense is woefully short on eptness, or we’re being bullshot for some reason. (Please note that this poem was not written to Andy Richter.)