Thursday, June 28, 2007
Instructed Ladyhunting 3; Moving in for the Kill
While Danielle sprinted into the kitchen to hide, I leaned back in the squeaky booth and put my feet up on the opposite bench. I was doing exceedingly well, considering the gaping holes in TSB's instruction set. It looked like decisions regarding when to show her my underwear and whether to ask her for her telephone or social security number, or to--uh oh. She's back.
"Here's your milk, sir," Danielle said as she set a glass of the whitest, milkiest milk I'd ever seen down on the table in front of me. I peered into the glass with one eye. I noted a bubble.
"Please. Call me FooDaddy. It's my pseudonym," I rumbled coyly, and pointed into the milk. "Bubble."
"Does it look okay?" Danielle asked.
"Oh, it looks just fine. I was just surprised to see one of them in there all by itself. Usually there's a whole bunch of them along the edge of--ooh, it's gone now."
"No, I mean the milk itself. Is it, uh, satisfactory?"
"Oh, it's top notch, baby," I said.
The two of us looked at the glass of milk, condensed water soaking into the napkin, and then back at eachother.
"Heh heh!" I said strategically.
"Are you ready to order?" she countered.
"Would you like to see my underwear?" I suggested, scooting closer to the edge of the booth. Danielle narrowed her eyes.
"Of course I will," I reassured her. Women and their abandonment issues. It's kind of sweet, actually, if you think about it. They just want to know that you'll be there for them. It made me feel so manly, I grunted and flexed my biceps.
"God. No, I mean I didn't hear you. Or at least I don't think I heard you right. I thought you asked me if I wanted to see your underwear."
"They have SpongeBobs on them," I said, putting my biceps away.
"Do you need a few minutes to look over the menu?" she asked, dropping back into Waitress Mode. That was okay. I had been bombarding this woman with my raw animal appeal at point-blank range, and there is only so much the mind can take. I giggled sexily.
"If you would, Gabrielle," I said, and opened the menu.
"Danielle," she gently corrected, and flipped the menu right-side-up for me. Her proximity allowed me a whiff of her perfume (maple syrup) and a closer look at her teeth. They were very clean. I became nervous and vibratey.
What would The Stupid Blogger do in this situation? I couldn't remember his advice going into detail about what to do with the womens once you'd reeled one of them in this close. My powerful mind carefully scanned the information at high speed, and came up with nothing. I widened the search to include all of his other posts, and ran the scan again. I got a hit.
"Wombats are funny!" I said.
"That's true," Danielle agreed. "But we don't serve them here, I'm afraid."
She either had a good sense of humor, or she was almost criminally stupid. I let my gaze de-focus and my head droop as I revved up the ol' brain again. Of course they don't serve wombats here. Why would a wombat come into Bob Evans to begin with? I was pretty sure that they weren't native to West Michigan, and even if they were, I doubted they would be welcome in restaurants. I toyed briefly with the idea of seeing-eye wombats, before deciding that she had meant to inform me that they did not serve any wombat-based dishes. I looked back at the menu. No wombats! Danielle was right. I laughed.
"Oh! I get it! Har!" I said, and looked up at Danielle. She was gone. "Probably went to ask the cook if he wouldn't mind making something not on the menu," I mumbled into my milk. I decided that I wouldn't ask for anything exotic or illegal, and chose a manly stack of pancakes. When Danielle returned, I nibbled seductively on a corner of the menu and placed my order.
"I'll have the Belgian pancakes, hold the fairy sauce," I said, and emitted a belly laugh sure to impress.
"Are you hitting on me?" Danielle asked, hand on cocked hip.
"Why, yes I am," I said. Then, more sheepishly, "Is it working?"
"You're certainly the most interesting person I've seen in here since I started," she considered, "and I really like your painted jacket. Classy."
"It's semi-gloss!" I said happily, and rustled my crunchy jacket. "Do you have a telephone number I can have? Or should I get your fingerprints, or what? I'm kind of new at this."
"First, I'd better get you a refill on that milk," she said, and picked up my empty glass.
As she walked away, I slouched down into the booth and had myself a crafty little snortle. If this woman planned to resist my charms, it was NOT going to be her night for victory!
"Heh heh," I said.
...to be continued!
Posted by Paul FooDaddy Brand at 3:03 PM