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Wake up, Edward, you sound like a dimwit.

Only baby goats and drunk cowboys should ever sound giddy, so apology not accepted, dolt.

Forgive me if I don’t share your excitement about meeting a hooker on a train, but I’ve met whores flying coach, mowing the lawn, and sitting in the front row at church, so I’m not as easily impressed as you, I guess.

Speaking of Grace, you better say your prayers before your little ‘date’ tonight.

Because chances are her pimp is hiding under whatever bed she drags you to. Mark my words, the second you get comfortable after a few shots of Kentucky bourbon and some ludes, those tender kisses on your Happy Gilmore will turn into a belt whooping on your Private Ryan, and you’ll be forking over your wallet to some guy named Big Frank.

By the way, was that book Miss Gracie was ‘reading’ on the train by any chance upside down?

So you want first date suggestions for New York City on a tight budget?

That’s easy, dumb ass.

Split a slice of cheese pizza in Central Park. Then pay a homeless guy a buck to sing her a love song. Take her to where the carriage rides load up then tell her, “Don’t worry, I would never make you do that lame crap,” and walk away. Get shitfaced together on the vodka you brought in your flask, then walk down to Broadway and mock the long lines of “cheap asses” waiting for discount tickets. By then if her pimp hasn’t bum-rolled you, by all means spring for a half-hour bed rental and “fall in love.”

But wear a jimmy on that thing or by Grace you’ll start oozing puss and itching like crazy for weeks.

It hurts.

Tell you the truth, Eddy boy, it doesn’t matter what the hell you do.

She’s a woman, so she’s already made up her mind about you. She either sees you as a thrilling adventure or as an easy mark. Either way there’s not a damn thing you can do about it except suck down that thermos of Smirnoff’s and try to stay awake until it’s over. At least then you’ve got a shot at a few moments of bravery and pleasure before it turns into bodily functions and knife wounds that you can never explain to your wife.

I’ll tell you what my old man told me when I first fell in love with my ex.

“It’s your funeral, idiot.”

And no, I’m not dead yet, Eddy my boy, but after a few years with the same woman in bed I wished I was, so have fun tonight at your funeral, I mean on your date.

I’d tell you to follow your heart and let it guide you, but it’s obviously broken if it’s setting you up with subway hookers and shitty paying jobs.

Regardless, hold the door open for her tonight and light her cigarettes.

Even whores deserve that kind of treatment, at least until she stabs you in the heart and drains your checking account.

Oh, and get the lubricated ones, chances are you’ll be in a rush.

Now get the hell off my porch, dumbnuts,

Pops