by Jen McNeely
Youth is so passé. There is no better way to look like a literary junkie, up to no good, then to have wrinkles bookend your eyes. “Yes I read the New Yorker and Economist cover to cover, just look into my eyes. There are simply not enough hours of the day for me to glare at text, ingest intellectualism and masturbate to visions of an inexperienced little Tom looking for a grand ma-ma.” Facials are for wimps and eight hours of sleep for pussies. What men really want is a woman to look aged like an earthy French merlot. Use your crows feet to interject dinner parties with “When I was your age, we used fax machines. Ah ha ha ha ha” That sentence is pure sex when annunciated with a crumpled wink. The more lines you have the more you can caw at young suitors yearning for an experienced Mrs. Robinson.

The advanced crow footer will remember that commercial from the mid-eighties with the young navy officer and the woman in uniform:

“Emerson High, 1975. You were in my class.”
“I was your teacher”.
“Miss Fitzhenry…?”
“Bugsy Brown”

That’s right you horny buck, you think that flawless skin with a glow is the way to go, well get ready because ol’ smoky eyes will teach you a lesson and devour your carcass down to the bone with one advance from the foot eye. Ca-CAWW – ca-CAWW!!