My friend and colleague, The Stupid Blogger, was good enough to provide tips and tricks for getting hold of some womens in his last post. While I respect his judgment and expertise, in actual practice his methods are lacking.
I read the post five times to make sure that I had everything memorized, and then set out to prepare myself for the evening.
I remembered TSB’s post had specific things to say about underwear, so I gathered my collection of boxer shorts together in one pile and stared at them. I didn’t have any black ones, so I went with the next best: the dark blue ones with little SpongeBobs on them. If there’s one thing women like better than a stud-infested man, it’s a stud-infested man who swathes his loins in giggling cartoon sponges. I wrote this down on a scrap of paper because it was important.
Next, I searched my closet for a suitable suit. Within the half hour, I discovered that I hadn’t one. Perhaps mine was at the cleaners, or had been pilfered by mice. This seemed odd to me, as Disney movies had taught me that mice are talented tailors who MAKE clothing rather than steal it.
No matter. The creative type can make educated substitutions, and this I did. A suit coat is little more than a denim jacket painted black with a slit up the back. I applied the scissors and a can of matte-black spraypaint, and my northern hemisphere was ready to go.
Dress slacks are really just giant black socks for your legs, and leg-socks are for girls. I couldn’t remember if TSB had made this point already, but I kind of figured he did. I ironed some creases into my best pair of fancy church jeans with a hot skillet and called it good. Scorch marks or pinstripes? Only a truly picky expert with a magnifying glass could tell.
I went a step further and applied a liberal spritzing of scent. I know TSB didn’t mention cologne, but I had heard somewhere that women like a pleasantly-scented man. Your average man naturally tends to smell a bit like socks and old licorice whips. I wanted to carry an odor of refined, yet tough, masculine appeal, so I used WD-40. Nothing says “take me back to your place and read me your favorite Blog posts, you chuckling sponge!” quite like it.
WD-40 is also a superb moisturizer, which is a bonus to the dry-skinned types out there.
I seemed to remember Stage Two containing something about unibrows. I affected the change with a black crayon, and called my grandfather to ask if I could borrow his 1996 Oldsmobile station wagon.
Women who see you haughtily ensconced in the cockpit of a station wagon naturally assume that you’re well off. You wouldn’t drive one if you couldn’t afford to buy stuff to carry around in the back, would you? Case closed.
Transportation settled, it was then time for me to choose a destination. I poked the car’s OnStar button.
“OnStar, how may I be of assistance?” said a Voice.
“Yes! I need to know where the womens be at.” I said suavely.
“…”
“You know? The womens?”
“Did you have anyplace particular in mind, sir?” the Voice said slowly.
“That’s what I’m asking YOU, Voice! Do not try my patience, as I am in a hurry of sorts.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand what you’re asking. If you had a street address, or an emergen—”
“The womens! You know? Feminine types? Pointy shoes and sparkly dresses?” I urged.
“Is this a joke?” the Voice said after a pause.
“Never mind. I’ll find them myself. I didn’t spend an hour painting my jacket just to be stymied by OnStar,” I said, and turned it off.
My own store of information on the habits and migratory patterns of the womens told me that they were to be found at one of three or four places: Tanning salons, apartment complexes, Nicholas Sparks movies, Target or Bob Evans. As all the tanning salons were closed at the time, apartments presented complicated legal issues and the movies were hardly the place to casually show off one's SpongeBob undergarments, I settled on Bob Evans.
I’ll leave the next part for later, as it is extremely exciting, and I want my audience to have a good night’s sleep before getting down to it.
2 comments:
Bo Bevans IS a haunt for wimmen, but I don't recommend such as you'll find there.
I recommend One Trick Pony up on Fulton St.
Now, don't be fooled by the word "Trick" in the title. The womens you'll find at One Trick Pony aren't hookers.
However, that actually brings me to my next point.
If you are desparate enough to paint a jean jacket and squirt industrial lubricants on your hairless chest, I recommend that you save your nickels and fly out to Las Vegas.
I went there for the first time several months ago.
I found out that when you walk down the Strip, lots of swarthy looking men slap little baseball type cards on their hand and offer them to you.
I don't know why they do the slap, but it is apparently the approved advertising method.
Anyway, I took one of these nice freebies and discovered that it had a picture of a woman who was willing to talk nice to you if you paid her money!
Well, my wife was willing to talk nice to me without paying money (you could point out that I feed and clothe and house and car her--and you'd be right!). And, I had already spent my money on cheap T-shirts to take home to my wife.
Anyway, even though I don't know first hand about these womens, they appear friendly and very tan. May work out nicely for you.
"Take me back to your retro chrome-and-gunmetal madhouse and READ to me, Thou Chuckling Sponge!"
I love this stuff. I may be biased, but I love it.
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