17th
I’m bringing elitism back. Them flyover states don’t know how to act.
Julian and me, a propos of dating mores among the literati, keeping to one’s standards, and this:
No Rite of Spring, no chance for a fling.
I won’t tap that ass if she don’t know Philip Glass.
I don’t wanna ball if you don’t dig Chagall.
I won’t take off my clothes if you ain’t down with Coase.
If you want to get sweaty, you gotta hum Donizetti.
You’re the bee’s knees if you recite Eratosthenes.
There won’t be no thrustin’ if he ain’t read Augustine.
If you don’t know Deleuze, sorry — you lose.
I won’t sip martini if you ain’t seen Fellini.
I won’t have an affair if that poem’s not Beaudelaire.
If that playlist ain’t Mahler, I ain’t tryina holler.
I don’t care if you’re fine unless you can quote Quine.
I just don’t think we’ll have fun if you can’t follow Ramanujan.
It’s not you—it’s me. I’ve read Spinoza: QED.
I would pick up the bill, but she’s new to Melville.
I would hit up her cell but she don’t dig Durrell.
Pretty hard to relate if you haven’t seen Tate.
If she don’t like Mingus, forget cunnilingus.
More to come from our theoretical future line of t-shirts ‘n bumper-stickers for geekster singles.
And, uh, if these names confused you at first glance, the rest is silence.
