Omaha Women Vs. Lincoln Women

Preface: I'm an egotist. When I go out, I drink to get drunk, to feel like I'm floating down a river while listening to the Zep's "Whole Lotta Love," and to keep everything in perspective. My only concerns are alcohol and cracking wise. Stiff drinks, cold Budweiser, and sharp jokes. "Am I plastered and are my chums laughing at my supposed witticisms?" That's it. (A successful night of carousing in Lincoln ends with drunk-speeding down 180, across Superior, and up 27th while praying that all LPD radio cars are elsewhere.) Unknown women are secondary. They're inessential. I think as "highly" of Tucker Max as I do James Frey. I didn't care about amassing notches on my bedpost when I was twenty-one. I don't care now. I don't carry a rubber in my wallet. I don't see women as toys—"just crank and wind and hope she hops on my pecker." No, not at all. So, this kind of affords me a fresh or different view and interpretation of the boozy estrogenic wilderness in our feculent, er, fair cities.

This is not a debate. The ladies of Omaha are the winner—by a landslide. The scattered nature of the bar scene in Omaha definitely plays a role. It's as if all the driving from this bar to a collection of bars to that bar somehow dissipates bitchiness or diffidence (no, not "indifference") or snottiness. I dunno. It's beyond me. (Generally, men in both cities are flagrant, unabashed douchebags. Each is a sea of clowns. [I would make a joke about Gacy but I won't.] I'm both a douchebag and a clown.) The following, which may be just my jadedness talking vis-à-vis Lincoln, is, jestingly, a combination of speculation, observation, and putative fact.

Lincoln women:

Immature (Asking, "Who's Robert Palmer?" Expecting 475-RIDE to show up after just two hours. Drinking more than one at Woody's.)

Blockheaded (Going to Bodega's and not anticipating thirty guys to attempt to line up a one-night stand with you.)

Touchy (Getting peeved at Bodega's after someone sees a tat on your arm and asks if you're in a gang.)

Unapproachable (Cold shoulders. Shooting fire from eyes. Eyes betraying wrath. Nails as long as knives.)

Delusional ("I don't wear underwear but, no, I'm not having sex with anyone tonight.")

(An actual Lincolnite. Will you look at this crazy?)


Omaha women:

Conversational ("Yes, I've heard of Hillary Clinton. But I don't follow politics. I'm not a registered voter. When is the election?")

Attractive on more than just a physical level (if only because they're not from Lincoln)

Unhurried (Standing on the dance floor at the Draft House, holding their purses, gazing about like elephants in the Serengeti.)

Worldly, well, somewhat (Chastising straight men in a gay bar for their choice of clothing.)

Chill, the good way (Laughing at profane, homophobic, racist, sexist, and taboo jokes more than once. Flat-out owning the vocals on "Dead on Arrival" on Rock Band.)

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I will say that, so far, Lincoln women tremendously outshine Omaha women when it comes to after-hours; however, my sampling data are limited and incomplete. (Last weekend in Omaha, one gal even refused to cheat on her husband who's serving in Iraq. Say what? You have scruples? Why? For what? "You need to come to Lincoln.") Ninety-five percent of said data went down in the L Word, but I'm not ready to count Omaha women out just yet. As for Lincoln, do-nothings don't have to work the morning after, so more women show up at over-hyped yawn-fests posing as after-hours.

Lincoln is fun until you turn twenty-three. After that, it's Omaha or NyQuil and MIKE AND IKE®.