The Journal of my Other Self

Are there any Puwomen out there? How does/can a human man find a Puwoman for friendship, romance, possible LTR? I figured, since you look so virile in your fatigues, you probably have a harem of puwomen and could give me some ideas.

Thanks for your help, and for all the wisdom you've dispensed so far.

Wanting P-Girls,

CRM-114

CRM-114 I am a PuMan with bagage. I live and love with the constant possibility of hints and whispers reminding me of women once wooed.

The texture of brie reminds me of nibbling on the nape of Audrey Tautou in a small hotel on Île de Ré near La Rochelle. Full on seafood and too much port from Le Bistrot de l'Entr'acte, and by morning completely unaware of where my body ended and hers began.

Each time Prime Minister Wen Jiabo calls and I see "China" on the caller id my heart jumps into my throat, reminding me of the time I served as the military and political consultant to Zhang Kangkang. At the time she was writing her essay "Cruelty", an my consultancy eventually lead to a three month three-way affair between myself and an as-yet-undiscovered Michelle Yeoh. Goodbye frequent flyers miles, hello $300 phone bills.

See CRM-114, there has been so many, too many. Michelle was my China doll down in old Hong Kong. She waits for my return.

My pretty Polynesian baby over the sea, well, I remember the night, when we walked in the sands of Waikiki and I held her oh so tight.

You see, I'm a travelin' man and I've made a lotta stops, all over the world.
And in every port I own the heart of at least one lovely girl. I've a pretty senorita waitin' for me down in old Mexico, and if you're ever in Alaska stop and see my cute little Eskimo. And my sweet fraulien down in Berlin town, she makes my heart start to yearn.

Oh, I'm a travelin' man
Yes, I'm a travelin' man
Yes, I'm a travelin' man
Woe, I'm a travelin' man

But I digress, let me tell you about the one trip the ended my travellin' ways.

I was doing some work for Blackwater fighting apartheid in South Africa during the late '70's . I had made a trip up to Lebowa, which was one of the South African "homelands" i.e. prisons for non-whites. The purpose of my trip was to fight apartheid via a long-term plan to push the non-white birthrate up above 6 children per family. We wanted to do this by convincing indigenous Africans that condoms (and therefor birthcontrol of any sort) was simply a tool of the Afrikaaners (the oppressive powers that be) to make the black, African male's penis smaller and consequently less virile than the Afrikaaners.

Needless to say this plan worked wonderfully and by years end nearly three-quarters of the sexually mature women in Lebowa and surrounding "homelands" were pregnant. Fifteen years later as these children matured and joined Mandela and others in the struggle against Apartheid, the indigenous African populations easily outnumbered the Afrikaaners by something like five to one. Let me tell you, I hate the fucking Dutch.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Lebowa was where I met the future Mrs. The Puman. She was only twelve at the time, so romance wasn't going to happen, but was the only other Pu-person I had met.

She loved me immediately, but like I said considering the age issue nothing was going to happen anytime soon. So I gave her father 3 fake visas, 8 lbs. of C4, 50 feet of primacord, my midget sidekick at the time named Ted (who later was worshipped as a god in Lebowa, so he made out alright in the end), and $37.48 (US) which equalled roughly $840,000 in Lebowese/South African currency. I told him I'd be back in 8 years to begin the courtship and to marry her if she'd have me.

So, 8 years later I was back in Lebowa. She'd become an amazing woman, benching roughly 185 and able to make a mean Lasagna. She was fluent in five languages, had two masters degrees in modern Russian literature and Applied Micro-Economics, could discourse for hours on the relationship between Dostoyevski and early French deconstructionist thought, and had an ass that simply would. not. stop. Heavens its the same to this day. A monument other than my own (at least three times a day baby!) ought to be erected in her ass' honor.

But I digrees: years later after a courtship that was on and off again more than Ward Crutchfield gets on and off his East Main Street Whores: we were married I haven't looked back since. It's hell in a handbasket but you can't beat the ride. She once killed four Basque seperatists with her bare hands and mooned Jerry Falwell during a sermon at Liberty U. How can you not love a PuWoman like that?