Here's a nice test: how would you like if I put you on a bar stool and put a candle between your legs and then opened your cervix with a cervix-opener and then read fairy tales to your uterus? Because every woman is born with about four hundred eggs, so my children could be in there already, stacked in like a crowd at a small concert. They'd be able to say, 'oh yeah, I was super in to Hans Christian Andersen before he got big. I saw him at a club called The Womb and there were only, like, two hundred in the crowd. I wonder where those guys are now?' [BLOOD!] I say two hundred because my wife will probably have already used up half her eggs on bleeding into tampons and pads and such. (Kilda just told me that baby girls are born with their own four hundred invisible eggs — maybe that's why they play with dolls, they're already practising.)

So, if you like the idea of open mic night at your Pussycat Club, you pass the test, and you might end up in my bed in the not too distant future. I'm speaking directly to my wife now, hear me out baby. Everybody else, it's not so much fuck off, because I'm happy you bought this book because now I'm a cult-superstar-media-hero, so, two birds one stone. But I really am blaring my soul so that my wife will pick up this book and read these words and somehow, somehow, find me. I know, OK, there are going to be women who stalk me and fill my mailbox with dirty panties and who believe they're Meg Ryan and I'm Tom Hanks, and who'll call and leave crazy messages and send me naked pictures from the neck down because they think I'm perverse and they know that's what men like, but listen to me for just one friggen New York second, OK, just calm down, everybody. It's probably not you — that's not me talking, it's the numbers.