You getting it right and me getting it all wrong, followed by a profuse apology on my part, is getting to be a painful habit around here. Naturally, I’ll admit to nothing other than you’ve been incredibly lucky to date – and society is backing your horse only by purest chance.

This time I was a bit hasty suggesting that hotties of the sub-25 ilk that adore draping themselves semi-clad on a hot rock in mid trout stream, think of sweaty, balding, or portly fly fishermen intruding upon their private and super-sweaty sunbathing sessions – regard us with the same loathing as cellulite …

… I was wrong.

Girls, especially the bronzed and toned super-hawtn3ss, adore men that know bugs. Especially those that can count after running out of fingers, are willing to exploit acres of taut and heaving – made vulnerable by male pheromones of those able to quote Latin or Shakespeare, assuming it was Shakespeare that invented Mountain Dew …

… and assuming your lack of shower and preponderance of bug spray you’ve slathered on yourself as a substitute for hygiene, allows those self same pheromones to exude themselves …