I don’t like Tom Leykis too much at all. He’s such an asshole.
But there is a little tiny bit of Tom Leykis in the best of men, a tiny corner in the blackest pit of our misogynist hearts, where Tom Leykis holds sway and throws an eternal party in Hell for all the bitches that done us wrong. We’re roaring drunk, throwing darts at pin-ups on boards and pummeling pinatas dressed up like strippers. The Rolling Stones is blasting away on the stereo.
And what a sweet revenge it will be. We can taste it on our lips as we swill cans of beer and rock to Midnight Rambler and Under My Thumb. The best of men may as well be dead, or there are no best of men. They’re all the party too.
Time wounds all heels, and time will be the revenge of the vain and vicious prettiest young things. As the Buddhists say, when you bet on the body, you bet on a losing horse.
Woman fears our rage, and rightly so.