It's been about two years now since I received the call from Tommy "The King" Molina. I'd rung my buddy a week or so earlier to tell him about the model I'd landed from Myrtle Beach.
"Tommy! She's amazing, man. Name's Eve. Ws a Miss Hawaiian Tropic. Won the Venus Swimwear title. Just did a PLAYBOY shoot. She's even got a web page with steamy video clips. Check her out at www.evehorne.com and let me know what you think."
Now, you have to know Tommy. In his day, before he was dethroned as The King - before he got married and went to work for Harvard - Tommy was THE MAN when it came to chalking up the big 180 with the ladies. Implying to Tommy that you may have closed the deal on some sweet young thing and telling him where to go to see her nearly naked was, and still is, a formula certain to drive Tommy to the edge.
Predictably Tommy clicked to Eve's site. In fact, he virtually lived there for the next three months - and then, at precisely 2:36 a.m. on August 14, 1997, as he was watching the stream of Eve seductively descending the stairs in her little Victoria's Secret number, Tommy somehow BLEW THE SITE RIGHT OFF THE INTERNET.
Yep, Tommy was hootin' and hollerin' and wackin' mouse on the table just like Pee Wee Herman at a nudie flick. And then - POOF. In one salacious instant, Tommy's computer fried and Eve's web site vanished from the Internet for good. You might have heard about this on the evening news.
So, if after the second paragraph of this column you rushed to www.evehorne.com and found that it doesn't load, you know who you've got to blame. Tommy Molina. HE RUINED IT FOR THE REST OF US. Serves him right that his new wife and Harvard fired his horny ass.
I picked up the phone. Tommy didn't so much as say hello. "Okay, Paulie, I've GOTTA know more." So I told him the truth. The honest-to-God's truth. And that's exactly what I'm telling you.
I first saw Eve on the cover of a magazine I picked up somewhere around Tampa, Florida. Kinda like that moment time stops in American Beauty - when Kevin Spacy first sets eyes on his daughter's hot little friend - I knew I HAD TO HAVE Eve. My quest began...
I wrote her letters. I sent e-mails. My message was always the same: "I think you'd look great in my shirt. Call me." I signed it Dartoid. Her response was always the same: nothing. So I changed my message: "I think you'd look great in my shirt. Call me." I signed it Leonardo DiCaprio.
Actually, Eve responded to my third message. "I'm sorry for not answering sooner," she e-mailed apologetically, "but I've been away at a bikini contest." And then she wrote: "Here's my number. Call me." Call me? CALL ME! Whoa baby!
The voice on the other end of the phone was young, sexy and phenomenally well endowed. Don't ask me how I could determine all this. Don't ask me how I could visualize her 26 year old, 101-pound, blond-haired, hazel and green eyed, 35c-23-33 frame ALL from just the sound of her voice. It's just a talent I happen to have.
Seriously. Some guys can dunk basketballs. Others can pick line drives out of the air. I know one guy, a local disk-jockey named Moose, who can actually figure out the make, year, mileage and color of a car simply by listening to the tone of its horn. Each of us has something we're good at. I just happen to be able to nail the triple one at will and calculate cup size from the sound of a sweet nothing.
Oh, I can hear you out there. You're doubtin' me. We'll fine. Try my x-rayin' ass - if you're drop-dead gorgeous give me a call. My phone number is 757-548-1029. If my wife answers tell her your name is Bruno. And if your name really IS Bruno, PLEASE DON'T CALL! The downside to my God-given talent is that I can calculate the male cup size too. It's frickin' scary.
So I rolled into my pitch: "Eve, have I gotta deal for you! I write these stories about darts. And I have these products - shirts, hats, flights, cases and stuff. I need a model. I can make you famous. I want you to wear my shirt."
And to my absolute amazement, Eve - whose favorite color is "baby blue" and who describes herself as "sweet, honest, loyal and fun" and whose favorite thing in the world to do is "cuddle to a great movie on rainy days" and whose measurements are 35c-23-33 (or did I already mention that? -- responded without a moments thought: "Is this Tommy Molina?"
Sorry. I just couldn't resist putting that in there. I can actually see Tommy reaching for his mouse at this very moment. What Eve really said was: "Well, I don't know much about darts but I'd like to help you. Will you teach me what to do?"
Teach me? TEACH ME! Who's your daddy, baby! As embarrassing as it is to admit, never, not ever has a woman of any kind, including the blow up plastic kind, used the words "call me" and "teach me" in the same conversation. I have however, often heard the words "no" and "bite me" and "die" in very rapid succession.
Sadly, I had to explain to Eve (whose measurements, by the way, are 35c-23-33) that the project didn't actually require her to know anything about darts. "As pleased as I'd be to show you my dart and let you take a few strokes, all I really need you to do is take off your clothes - and put on my shirt. Whaddya say?"
Considering that I once used pretty much this same line at a party in high school as was promptly cold-cocked by a redhead named Rachel, I was blown away by Eve's response. "Sounds fund, " she said, simply. "Let's do it." These, incidentally, are the exact same words my old friend John Jarrard used in 1971 when, in a moment of adolescent brilliance, I proposed that we blow up our principal's porch light with a cherry bomb. Got us both thrown out of school.
But things have worked out much better with Eve. She's now the official Dartoid's World model. She poses with the hats and the shirts. She's gonna be in ads in darts magazines all over the world. On the cover of a book. And, if all goes well, in the spring she'll be modeling the new Dartoid's World line of thongs. So life is good.
If you want a shirt or hat just let me know. E-mail me at firstname.lastname@example.org. They are reasonably priced at just $16 and $20 respectively. They don't fade or shrink and each and every one of them comes with a Certificate of Authenticity that it has been slept in by Eve. Or, alternatively - if you really don't want a shirt or a hat but do have some spending cash - for $100 I'll ell you Eve's phone number.
Finally, if you're a female who has actually waded this deep into my sexist crap, please accept my apology. My guess is that you don't want a shirt or hat any more (though I'm sure you'd look sensational in either). If you'd like a formal apology, feel free to give me a call.
I'd just love to listen to your voice.
From the Field,