YOLANDA
                         I want a real man.  Not one of
                         these khaki-wearing, gas-guzzling
                         salarymen, their dirty-money
                         hands soft and fake like cheese
                         from a can.  Not one of these
                         gold-chain muscle-car playa boys,
                         punching their subwoofers and
                         spinning their tires.  Not one of
                         these rock-hard professional
                         football-players, with cocaine in
                         their lockers and jockstraps
                         around their ankles.  I want a
                         real man, not one of these black
                         heart dark-lord soul-suck CEOs
                         from paper companies, stealing
                         our electricity and singing opera
                         on the witness stand: "Nolo
                         contendre!"  You can screw
                         everyone else in California, but
                         you can't screw me!  I want a
                         real man, not the testosterone
                         overdriven college freshman,
                         bawling his affection to me
                         underneath my window at four in
                         the a.m.  Shut up, I need my damn
                         beauty sleep!  I want a real man,
                         not one of these button-mashing
                         Silicon Valley technogeeks.  I'm
                         not your Playstation, I'm not
                         your X-Box, quit yanking your
                         joystick to the television!  I
                         want a real man, not one of you
                         two-time Romeos, bearing drug
                         store heart-shaped candies.  I
                         found your wedding ring; I sold
                         it for beer.  Pipe down or I'll
                         call your wife and describe the
                         birthmark on your ass.  I want a
                         real man!  I want a man who tells
                         the airplane hijacker to turn
                         down the in-flight movie so he
                         can get some sleep.  I want a
                         schemer, a dreamer, a chocolate
                         ice creamer with arms like
                         jackhammers and abs like prison
                         bars.  I want a man with spurs on
                         his boots that wring lightning
                         out of concrete.  I want a man
                         whose smile can melt the polar
                         ice caps.  I want a man with eyes
                         the color of fire.  I want a man
                         whose ass muscles can be used to
                         open cans.  I want a man who
                         takes two spoonfuls of plutonium
                         in his morning coffee. 
                         I want a man who'll run into a
                         burning building to save the
                         firemen who ran into the burning
                         building to save me.  I want a
                         man who'll make a phone call and
                         have Osama bin Laden hogtied,
                         blindfolded, and injected with
                         sodium pentathol, within the
                         hour.  I want a man who writes
                         the cure for cancer on the back
                         of a Bazooka Joe bubble gum
                         wrapper.  I want a man who is
                         very, very, very punctual.  I
                         want a man who can talk Jesus
                         into knocking over a liquor
                         store.  I want a man who can
                         start a fire with only a spool of
                         thread, a seven-inch Bowie knife,
                         and a box of Triscuits.  I want a
                         man who doesn't just cheat Death. 
                         He takes Death's wallet and car
                         keys.  I want a man who, when I
                         dig my seven-inch railroad-spike
                         fingernails into his back,
                         doesn't just say my name.  He
                         prays my name.  He worships at
                         the resplendent altar of Me,
                         offering me his Harley, his
                         electric guitar, his God, his
                         mother, and his ten-million
                         dollar cattle ranch in Colorado. 
                         And when I've wrapped around him
                         like a steel glove, I want him to
                         look into my eyes and pledge his
                         soul to the undying pleasure of
                         Me, as well as ten thousand of
                         his future souls, one soul a
                         second, all hot screaming night
                         long.  And then, when the gray
                         dawn finally burns the east
                         horizon, I want scrambled eggs
                         and buttered toast with cherry
                         marmalade.  So back it up, all
                         you pantywaist poseur-boys, all
                         you warrior wannabes, all you
                         hard-body halfbacks in heat, all
                         you slick-willy prom dates with
                         wilting roses in your
                         outstretched fists.  Back it up,
                         you painted porn stars, you wife
                         beaters in waiting, you sweet
                         sensitive men who know how to
                         make pasta from scratch.  Tom
                         Cruise!  Barry Bonds!  Colin
                         Powell!  Ricky Martin!  Henry
                         Kissinger! 
                         Back it right on up, boys!  It's
                         not you, blowholes, you,
                         mannequins, you, candy-canes,
                         that I want.  I want a man who
                         lifts the lid.  I want.  A real. 
                         Man.