Or so he says:

I’m back from the pussy war. This is the war that men fight for 20 years, starting at around age 15. Maybe sooner. You spend 20 years thinking about nothing but pussy, how to get pussy, I need new pussy, where is there going to be pussy. You get out there in the trenches and you battle for pussy, you learn about the enemy, you try to take them down.

Now I’m thirty-five and a half and some hormonal switch has been thrown. Maybe it’s just age, maybe it’s my job crushing it out of me—who knows. But I no longer give a shit about pussy. I’m back from the pussy war.

I did well. Lots of confirmed kills. Not, you know — I didn’t take down the Osama of pussy. I didn’t fuck a lot of nineteen year old supermodels, but I did my part. And I didn’t get hurt. Didn’t get the wound that would take me out of the game — no STD that ever stuck, never impregnated a crazy chick, etc. If they gave out medals for the pussy war I would be decorated.

But I didn’t WIN the pussy war, either, because the objective was to go out and meet and get down with tons of girls, and one of them would be my future wife. I could retire from the pussy war honorably, having attained victory. But none of them were…