I pulled my Scottish ass out of the fartsack this morning; groggy, grumpy, and four other unpleasant dwarves who don’t bear mentioning.

“Shawn,” I mumbled to myself, “today we’re going to get a request for some goddamn pages from at least one agent. Today is the day.”

Remind me to do that more often. It worked. Request for pages. Woot!

I gave my roll call of cantankerous achondroplasiac mood metaphors the day off. Today is a good day. My boss is out of the country. It’s payday. My missus is cute as a puppy under a wagon. This particular Eff-around Friday is a damn good one. I’m a lucky man.

Cue the party music.

Oh, not yet. First some blather. I wrote a novella about a WOBL (wise, old, black lady); a fish-out-of-water story about a sweet and smart retired schoolteacher in the mythical Texas town of Conoyerville.  It was one of my better efforts. The novella finished third in the 2007 Miami University novella contest.

I don’t know why I didn’t expect it, but I was surprised when some friends asked me, “What do you know about being black, old, or a woman?”

Shit. I don’t know. Regardless of age, ethnicity, or gender, we still share the same cultural roller coaster. We might have different value milestones along the way (I like the gravity suspension of the short dips, you like the bank turns) but jeez. Ask me what I know about being a twelve-year-old Muslim bride in South Yemen and I’ll freely admit that I have no idea. But… Same country? Same cultural touchpoints? We’re not as different as we are alike.

Start there. Acknowledge that some stereotypes are stereotypes because they are true. Run against the grain of a few other stereotypes, and… Bazinga. Real characters who aren’t middle age white guys.

Writing for contemporary teens girls? God bless all of the friends of my daughters who ever broke bread at my table. I asked a lot of questions and took a lot of mental notes on the answers they gave and the answers they wanted to give but didn’t.

Again. Two thirds of those girls thought Justin Beiber was the end-all, be-all. One third of them rolled their eyes at the mention of his name. Two thirds of those girls lived to shop. One third of them could not care less if they ever stepped foot in another mall.

Common culture + Stereotype – (Counter stereotype x .33) = Real characters. Gotcha.

Which brings us back to the Eff-around Friday Party Anthem.

There’s a formula to a song that makes women want to procreate. Groove Me, by King Floyd. Kiss, by Prince. Gonna Love You Just A Little Bit More, Barry White. Sexyback, by J.T.

Just a touch of Alpha male, telling the ladies how it’s gonna be. Aaaawwwwww yeaaaaaah.

So here’s one for the ladies. Robin Thicke’s Blurred Lines. If you inputed all of the sexy songs that make sexy ladies think sexy things into an analytic computer ala Watson and had it write an original song, this is the song it would spit back out; a stripper anthem for the ages.

BUT WAIT!

Before you click that video… If you are:

A. Not at work

B. A guy

C. Straight

D. NOT AT WORK!

… then click this version instead.

I repeat. This version is NOT SAFE FOR WORK, not even if you work the intake desk for Satan.

http://www.vevo.com/watch/robin-thicke/blurred-lines-unrated-version/USUV71300526?syndicationid=bb8a16ab-1279-4f17-969b-1dba5eb60eda&shortlink=W0OCcA&country=US

And, if you can stand to hear it twice, here’s Jimmy Fallon and The Roots joining Robin for a damn fine a cafunky cover.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YOZjaqHioro

Happy Friday, y’all. Turn it up and wiggle them butts.