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  One of the hardest things I find about being 40 is not the aching
back, the bifocals, or a shining spot on top of my head, its being
invisible to the young coeds at my Ivy league Univeristy.  I am not
quite sure when this happened; all I know is that ten years ago I would 
walk down a street, catch the eye of a pretty woman and we would exchange
smiles.  Now these same woman's eyes look right through me.  I even
have tried stepping in front of them, blocking their way.  Most just
walk around me as if I was a lamppost, although one was very nice and
acknowledged my existence with an "out of my way baldie."  She made
my day :)

  The final straw occurred as I was fumbling with the keys for my
office and some books tumbled out of my grasp onto the floor.  A
woman, on her way back from class, picked them up and said as she
returned them to me, "Here you go sir."  Sir. Sir!  My hair isn't
even gray.  I decided then and there that I must show them what I had
and that I still had it.

  I searched the yellow pages until found Harold's Trench Coat
Emporium located downtown behind the civic center.  As I walked in,
Harold greeted me, "FBI, KGB, or Flasher?"  

  "Um, well, um KGB," I stuttered.

  He took another look and jerked his thumb toward the rear of the
store and said, "Flasher coats are in the back.  Fibbies always say
flasher, KGB say FBI, and flashers say KGB.  Anyway the KGB can't
afford them anymore."   (A flasher trench coat looks like a normal 
trench coat, but its buttons are non-functional.  It closes with
velcro for that "quick open and close" so necessary for good flashing.)

  Next stop was the Salvation Army where I bought a pair of pants
whose legs I cut off and tied above my knees.  Now I was ready for my
street debut!

  I cruised the campus for a few hours, more and more pleased with
myself, thinking there was no way any woman could ignore me now.  At
last I saw them: two beautiful women walking toward me.  I ambled in
front of them and flashed open my coat saying, "Do you girls know
what this is?"

  Without batting an eye, one replied, "A miniature penis?  I'm sorry
but I don't have a magnifying glass."  They continued walking, resuming
their conversation as if I had never come along.       

  I was crushed.  My whole raison d'etre had been shattered. Maybe I
really have lost it.  Maybe I should have waited for a warmer day.
I decided that I needed therapy.  

  After a few weeks, my therapist convinced me that I was the victim
and urged me to contact her husband lawyer--Vince Fungi.  Lucky for us 
the woman who insulted me was related to Bill Gates.  Backed by
the expert testimony of his wife, Vince sued, claiming the woman
caused me irreversible psychological harm.  The jury of my peers,
twelve aging, balding men in trench coats, agreed and I was awarded
5.9 million dollars in punitive damages.  (It may have helped that
they were all former Windows programmers.)

  Most of my time is now spent saddled up to a bar trying to heal my
shattered ego.  At least many women no longer ignore me.  I just open
my coat, flash my wad of 100 dollar bills and all of a sudden I'm not
invisible.  Vince tells me that if he and his wife run out of money,
all I have to do is pinch Christi Brinkley's buns.  Her slap to my
face should be worth at least a million.  God, don't you just love
the US legal system.  It works for us!

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