Whoooo-hooo! What's up, people???!!!

Audience, applauding: Whoo-hoo!

No, seriously, you guys are great.

The woman down here in the green shorts seems particularly great to me tonight: don't ask me why.



I guess we'll have to put it down to pheromones.



Whether the pheromones in question are mine or hers has yet to be established.



There's too much chemical "background noise" in here, as our friends the scientists might put it.

Could everyone else sort of "turn off" their pheromones for a minute, so I could trace this feeling of mine to its biological source?

What's that, sir? You want to know how to turn off your pheromones?

Hmm. That's a good question: I imagine you simply have to stop thinking amorously about anybody in the room.

Would you look at that guy back at the bar? He's like, "But that's impossible! Look at all the righteous babes wherewith I am surrounded!"

Well, then close your eyes, you shameless Lothario, jeez!

I mean, you're a grown man: learn a little self-control up in here tonight, if only in the interests of science!



Whoo-hoo, indeed!

For those of you who skipped the high-school biology class on pheromones -- or for those of you who went to high-school before human pheromones were even discovered (under our underarms, of all places) back in 1986...

we proudly present: Remedial Pheromones 101, with Professor Yu Cant See-Um....

Incidentally, I'm still picking up a lot of "cross-noise" in here on the pheromone front, so it's obvious that some of you people still need to "settle down," psycho-sexually speaking. I don't know what the big deal is anyway. Nothing personal, but this is not the best-looking audience that I've ever seen in my life -- with the possible exception of the aforementioned woman in the green shorts, of course, who (from a biochemical point of view, at least) appears to be "just what the chemist ordered" for me.

That's it, sir, shut your eyes and think pure thoughts while I present "Pheromones for Dummies," aka, "These are NOT your grandmother's pheromones."

Right. Here's the deal: Back in 1971, a psychologist named Martha McClintock at the University of Chicago noticed a strange thing. Of course, there were no-doubt plenty of strange things to notice in Chicago in the early '70s (at the University of Chicago alone, not to mention in the entire Windy City) but this one had to do with the apparent synchronization of menstrual cycles among women (sisters and the like) who lived together. It seemed that women were somehow affected by the relative propinquity, if you will, of their potential male sex objects.

Remember, pure thoughts, fellas: Pure thoughts! (Our purity-challenged Lothario back at the bar is going, "This lecture is not helping!")


So, Martha and company got to thinking: "Well, bless our scientific hearts!" or words to that effect: "How are the men exerting this seemingly invisible influence on these women's menstrual cycles?"

Well, long story short...



(You guys could find a double entendre in anything!)

Long story short, they deduced the presence of a sort of influential (and often extremely subtle) "odor" that is wafted from men to women, influencing the timing of the cycles in question. Researchers would soon go on to chemically confirm the existence of such substances, albeit not yet to the scientific satisfaction of everybody in the field....

The bad news is, I'm starting to bore you guys. The good news is, I'm getting your minds off of sex, thereby muting the extraneous pheromone activity in the room and letting me trace my own potentially amorous biochemical output viz-a-viz this shorts-clad woman of whom I speak (of whom I think, of whom I dream -- nay, of whom I positively obsess up in here tonight! Whoo-hoo!)



Thank you, sir: There's nothing like a confirmatory "whoo-hoo" from one's audience.

And don't worry: I'll trace my chemicals to their source, no matter where they lead!



Then again, as this is a PG-rated comedy club, there's always the possibility that the trail could lead somewhere that I'm not permitted to go, thus obliging me to obfuscate the evidence through some sort of (as 'twere) "shoe-scuffing" and red-faced coverup. (As in, "Awwwww, shucks, folks! I mean, jeepers, now!")

But not to worry: the list of "places" that I'm not permitted to go is short, indeed, given the racy times in which we live. (For a complete list of these off-limit potential anatomical wellsprings of my neuro-chemical sexual activity, send an SASE to American Egghead, 121 North Bronx Street, Brooklyn, NY 20005. Submissions must be received before midnight tonight, or our ridiculously underpaid clerk will be furious, indeed, and may even quit.)

Let me first say that I've definitely ruled out my underarms as the provenance of my own psycho-chemical output tonight. I mean, give me some credit here: I did shower before I got here, you know.

Nor can I suspect this obviously intelligent short-clad eye magnet here in front of me of foregoing the customary ablutions prior to her own arrival there in row number two.

In short, if she and I are chemically attracted to each other this evening, it must be a strong two-way signal indeed, since its persisting after our best joint efforts to eradicate it through the application of the customary moistures and assorted balms and lotions that Mankind has created for that very purpose.

Incidentally, do you feel it, too, madame, or do my claims of chemical reciprocity on the psychosexual front ring hollow on your end?

What's that? My claims ring "as hollow as the beating war drum"?

I'm not sure what that means, exactly, but it doesn't sound good.

Well, all I can say is, if you're not altogether smitten by me, then I'll thank you to keep your pheromones to yourself! (Mumble, mumble, mumble.... ) Fancy, invading my neurochemical space like that!

Listen, you've been a great audience, with the obvious exception of the shameless wretch back at the bar who couldn't get his mind off of sex, even in the name of science, judging by the positive stream of water-muddying pheromones that he was sending out during my routine! If I hadn't bored him to death with my lecture, I'd probably STILL be up here trying to diagnose my neuro-chemical attraction to "Our Lady of the Green Shorts."