Why I Won’t Hang Out with George Clooney Anymore

By Ryan Clark


It started off well, when I first met The George

at that premiere – we smiled and shook hands.


We made quick conversation, about basketball,

politics, FOX News and Ayn Rand.


I was taken aback at his casual style

and the way he made all feel at ease.


If I only knew then what I’ve figured out now:

George Clooney can be such a tease.


When he offered a ride to a neighborhood bar

I got in – ‘cause how could I say no?


Several tall, scantily clad feminine-types

hopped in too, in our black stretch limo.


The bubbly flowed free and the jokes they all killed

and our troubles got thrown to the wind.


I quickly discovered there’s not much you can’t do

when the Cloon-Man is your bestest friend.


We arrived at the bar and they knew him by name

like that big guy who played ‘Norm’ in “Cheers,”


And the women they fawned, and the men shook his hand

saying things like “George, it’s been years!”


Did I feel out of place? Not once, not at all,

I just loved taking all of it in.


All night I felt just like his family

as we threw back our tonic and gin.


It was everything grand, all you could hope for

‘til the clock on the wall struck midnight


when George leaned in close and told me he’d chosen

a female – for me – for the night.


I laughed, looked away, and looked back, and then saw

that he was not lying one bit.


“Here’s Charlemagne,” Clooney said with a smile,

“She seemed like your perfect fit.”


She had skin that was bronze, like Olympic medallions

and legs that were tall like Yao Ming.


Her other assets were so perfectly right,

specifying would be un-gentlemanly.


So I smiled and then polished off just one more cold drink

before turning to tell George the thing.


“I’m sorry, George Clooney,” I said to George Clooney,

“I’m married.” I showed him my ring.


His face got all twisted, like he’d tried something sour

and he stared at me like he was in pain.


He placed a hand on my shoulder, “So sorry,” he said,

“It’s been nice.” Then he drove away.


And the party went with him; at once I was alone.

But I knew I could not play that part.


Like hundreds before me, I’d been Clooney-ized:

Left grieving, sighing, pondering


my poor, George Clooney’d broken heart.