Saturday, June 16, 2007
Instructed Ladyhunting 2; Ladies Located, Cap'n.
As you'll recall from my last Ladyhunting post, I had outfitted myself with a powerful battery of lady-attracting items and odors. Weapons check complete, I revved up the StudWagon (1996 Oldsmobile station wagon) and pointed its ridiculous hood ornament toward Bob Evans restaurant. My Foodar indicated an unusually high concentration of womens in that direction, and I was ready for them.
I adjusted my bowtie, smirked into the rearview mirror, and tromped the gas pedal with vigor.
I arrived at Bob Evans, oozing pomp and sagacity from every studly pore, tossed the keys to a man I assumed was a parking valet, and within seconds I was short one 1996 Oldsmobile.
As it turns out, the Foodar was in dire need of a re-calibration. I think the derisive giggling of the waitresses hurt the most.
Undaunted, I proclaimed into the West Michigan twilight: "That's okay! I have more of them back at home. That one was low on gas, and people of my caliber do not refill gas tanks. We just switch cars!" Having explained myself, I strode confidently to the doors and gave them a shove.
Oh no. Unforseen troubles! The tastefully varnished wooden doors to the foodstuffs retailer had been unceremoniously locked! The FooDaddy has had a barrier to the womens placed between him and they! Choking back panic, I pushed harder, but to no avail. The giggling waitresses again sounded their malevolent cackle, which rolled over me like the cold, fish-scented water of the Great Lake Michigan. There was figurative sand in my figurative bathing suit now, and my WD-40 was being taxed as a sweat broke upon my finely chiseled brow. I stepped back to issue another proclamation.
"The doors to this establishment will not stand! Enter I shall, and when I do, there will be nothing to stand against my sexy onslaught!"
I threw my body at the sturdy oak, and bounced off. After a spastic regrouping, I again hurled myself at the doors, this time with a defiant hoot. I hit the walk a second later. Through the red haze of my rage, I saw a restaurant employee approaching the doors from the inside. He pushed them open.
"Are you alright?" he asked, concern rustling through his eyebrows. "You have to pull these doors from the outside," he said, pointing to the little placard in the window that said "PULL."
I sat there on the cement and searched my memory of TSB's post for advice on how to deal with this situation. I came up with nothing. I made a mental note to point out this glaring deficiency the next time I saw him. I had to improvise.
"Liar," I said, regaining my feet and pride. I grimaced and pointed an accusatory finger at the man. We stood like that, silent, as the seconds spun out.
"Soooo... table for one?" he asked, unflappable. I dropped the finger and gave the fellow a nod. He had earned my respect. "You've earned my respect," I said. "Yes. A table for one. Could you make it a booth, though? I plan on becoming 'lucky,' as the expression is." I winked broadly, which is something only a few really skilled men can do. Implying breadth by briefly closing one eye requires a mastery of sexitude not possessed by the masses. I followed him into the restaurant.
"Danielle will be with you shortly," he said, and withdrew. I looked around the room. TSB had instructed the luck-seeker to pick out a woman to concentrate one's efforts on, but here he had failed me again: there was not a single valid female specimen within eyeballshot.
"Hi! I'm Danielle. I'll be taking care of you tonight. Is there anything I can start you out with? A--"
"Ha!" I said, leaping to my feet. Or rather, I tried to leap to my feet. Being seated at a booth, I made it halfway before my knees crashed into the underside of the table, tossing the salt and pepper shakers into the seat opposite me. I turned a seductive shade of mauve and casually dropped back onto the bench.
"No coffee for you, I guess!" said Danielle with a smile so Bob Evansy it was like I really was there, Down on the Farm.
"Womens," I muttered. "Eureka."
"Don't be, baby," I said with measured suavity and appropriate loudness. My mind scrambled for situation-specific TSB instructions.
I downshifted into a lower vocal register. "There's a footrub in it for you if you bring me the tallest glass of milk you have."
"Or perhaps you would like to view my boxer shorts? They have SpongeBobs on them," I growled, and winked again, this time with the other eye.
"Is that spray paint on your jacket?"
"Sears house brand, baby."
"I'll, uh... I'll go get your milk."
...to be continued!
Posted by Paul FooDaddy Brand at 2:24 PM