Excuse me, ladies, but I’m going to have to ask you not to slap my ass.

I’d also appreciate it if you refrained from the two-handed squeeze, the casual brush or the baseball double-tap. I’d prefer it if you fought back the urge to reach out and give that ass the lingering feel, the pinch or the debit card swipe. Please — I’m asking you politely.

Babes, I know it’s going to be tough this weekend. You’re going to see that fantastic ass, and you’re going to want a piece. It’s only human. I can’t blame you, because let’s face it: It’s a great ass. But it’s not yours, so please don’t touch.

[media-credit id=20135 align=”alignleft” width=”250″][/media-credit]These goods are rare, OK? Not for general consumption. VIP access only. Putting together a slice of USDA prime into the serious gift you see today is not easy. I’ve got more juice flowing through these veins than a goddamned Odwalla factory. That, and a stiff daily regimen of running, Pilates and spin class (please don’t tell the bros) is the kind of effort I’m willing to put forth in order to bring you a world class ass. So respect it.

That ass will be on full display this weekend.

Oh yeah, you betcha. My costume, you ask? Sexy Homer Simpson. That’s right. The bottom half of that costume, you ask? So scanty you could use it to floss an alligator.

I understand how it is; I really do. You’re out with the girls, partying, getting schmutzed, maybe getting a little sloppy and you see an otherworldly piece of man cake — the kind you can’t get at Vons. So you want a piece. Maybe your girls do, too. That’s natural. But here’s the deal: Just because I’m dressed like this does not mean I’ve got a sign on my ass saying “Touch me.”

If you’re looking for that bro, he’ll be a half-block behind me; you can’t miss him. He’s the semi-naked dude with a sign on his ass that says “Touch My Ass, Please.”  Go wild.

I will be pretty drunk, though. I’ll probably be drinking pumpkin schnapps all day, so by about 10 p.m. I might be on the wrong side of the tracks in Tipsytown. At that point, I might be open to a little conversation. Smile, walk over and talk to me. I won’t bite. But don’t run down the street with your girlfriends trying to play whack-a-mole with the asses of me and my bro-pack. It’s no fun for us.

Is that how your father taught you to treat men? That’s right; I didn’t think so.

Wow, you chicks are persistent, though. Who knew the male ass would hold so much power over the female sex? It seems like it’s always about the ass, the ass, the ass. Amazing. I’m a person, too, you know — not just a great ass.

What’s that you say? You really, really, reeeeallly want to grab it? Alllriiiight. You can touch my ass — once. But you owe me a beer.