Instructed Ladyhunting

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.

Anybody Need An Epic?

The Blog has been in existence for over a year now and we’ve gotten numerous complaints regarding an outbreak of carpal tunnel syndrome, due to the frantic clicking in which Blog visitors have been engaging in an attempt to read and reread the brilliant scribblings contained therein.

Well, we’ve set out to remedy this. Using the skill we’ve honed to the edge of a dull baseball bat, we would both like to take this opportunity to announce a solution using awkward sentences here in this dual post! Each paragraph has been contributed by either The Stupid Blogger, or me. You’ll not be able to tell who contributed each one, due to our intrinsic craftiness. *both chuckle and hi-five*

In an effort to alleviate this hardship to our readers, we have each put together a book containing all our posts from the past year. Well, okay. Not all of us have done so. Just FooDaddy and me. Pickle Weasel, sadly, doesn’t seem to have enough material to put together a volume of adequate length. Of course, since Idahoans are too busy mining for valuable metals, such as petrified gnome excrement, it is understandable that he would be unable to devote sufficient time to a project of such monumental proportions.

Ha ha! Those silly Iowans and their ancient gnomes. All kidding aside, we are seriously offering you out there in the Real World the chance to own a paper version of our precious Blog’s first year. You will see it grow from a clumsy, gummi-bear-encrusted toddler into the globe-straddling colossus it is today. You will get to see newly made graphics, bonus material in the form of non-online posts and intros, and it will all be on paper so you can show your friends and relatives. Anyone you wish to impress with your obvious good taste.

Of course, we don’t wish to exclude any non-readers out there, so we are willing to admit that there are many other uses for a book of this nature. Allow me to list a few of these options:

1. This book is perfect for stabilizing wobbly chairs and tables.
2. Take a copy with you into court sessions in order to add credence to your plea of innocent by reason of insanity.
3. Use it to provide discipline to small children, either by beating them over the head or forcing them to read a few choice passages.

These and other activities should convince all of you that purchasing large quantities of these volumes is absolutely essential.

You may be tempted to make the argument that the books’ contents are available for free on the internet, so why buy them? This argument is false. The Internet can do a lot, but you cannot prop furniture up with it. I’m impressed that we were even able to get them published. We promise we will not use the wealth we are sure to accumulate to buy frivolous things like boats, silk neckties, skyscrapers, ice scrapers, or lots and lots of buttered popcorn. We will use it to feed our families or pets and the rest we shall put toward future operations regarding nonsense.

So, if your life seems unfulfilled, feel free to click on the provided links and examine the merchandise. Oh, and if you’re ever in Idowa, it wouldn’t hurt to drop Pickle Weasel a line expressing consolatory sentiments. Perhaps sometime within the next century, he will have accumulated enough material to join our exclusive club. Until then, perhaps all of you can support him in his current line of work by visiting his online museum of petrified excrement and even patronizing the gift shop.

I heartily recommend the keyring with the polished GnomePoo® fob. Stylish AND cultured! Now buy our stuff! You’ll be glad you did.

We’ll be glad you did, I mean. We pride ourselves on our honesty.

Purchase Dear Time-Wasters

Purchase The Stupid Blogger Chronicles

User-Affected Moronics

Looky here, time-wasters! I've decided to try to engage the public again. My last attempt didn't go over so well for one of two reasons: my car accident story was sooo stupid that it left no room for improvement, or because nobody cared.

In order to figuratively "give my ego a cookie," I will assume the former.

This new ruse of mine is a "choose your own adventure!" kind of thing. I will start a story, and offer several different branches that it might take. It's up to you, the Stupidity Indulger, to choose!

Fun? Fun. Let's begin!

The Road to Doom

"Aye, father, so 'twill be my first time out upon the land by my ownself! But as I have become a man over the last two half-fortnights, it is nigh time for me to venture forth. Surely you must see this," said Ernald the Whiny, son of Sven the Unreasonable. Sven clouted his son about the head with a hank of mutton jerky.

"No son of mine doth speak to me in such a fetid manner! Besooth and befrank! 'Tis mere twaddle you emancipate! Thou shall abide thy internship at yon blacksmith and learn the trade of the ampersand and blast fromage," Sven soliloquized. He straightened his neck ruff imperiously and shot his cuffs. Fearing he would be next, Ernald dashed from the room.

The Spankholm estate was a ranch encompassing many square furlongs and having upon it a cow and much sheeps. Ernald the Whiny came flailing out of the manor house and besought his horse. He found it in the barn, hoofing the ground with relish.

"I tire of the life my father has set up for me, Gelatin," Ernald said, wiping a single tear from without his eyeball with one hand and saddling Gelatin with the other. The big mare stood and chewed on Ernald's brownish locks. Ernald poked her fondly in the dapples. "Thou art a goodish horse," he decried, and formed himself upon her back. He took up the reins and with a hoot and a splash, dongled off into the countryside.

By and by, he came to a chicken vendor who was vending chickens. Ernald, who had not yet broken his fast that day, yearned to break it triumphantly and with great abduction. He reined up beside the swarthy, bearded fellow and dismantled.

"Good day, sir fowl peddler! How many pieces of gold for yon cockerel?"

"The brownish tan one? Or the tannish brown one?" queried the man continentally. Ernald thought for a space of time.

"The purple one," he said finally. "How many golden gumbies for that fine specimen?"

The vendor's placating smile dissolved and fell from his face with a spangle, leaving his visage cloudy and forsooth.


And now, time-wasters, it's up to you to choose what happens next!

a.) The chicken-seller is merely experiencing minor indigestion, regains his cheery disposition and sells Ernald the purple cockerel, which he mounts upon his hat for the panache this lends his appearance. He asks the seller where he might purchase a fine sub "marine" sandwich with which to quench his hungers.

b.) The chicken is capable of speech, is a source of unutterable powers, and gives Ernald the power of a marginally retarded sorcerer.

c.) The purple cockerel is actually a beloved pet of the seller, and he refuses to sell. This causes Ernald to become rampagey, and in the end he decides to purchase the tannish-brown one in its stead.

d.) Some children steal Gelatin while Ernald is haggling with the seller of chickens, and he is forced to take the bus from now on.

The option with the most votes by the time I've decided to write more is the one I'll follow. C'mon! It'll be fun. Trust me.

Tips for Budding Romeos

As Pickle Weasel has astutely pointed out, I happen to be irresistible to womens. Frankly, I’m not sure why this is, but it may be a combination of my rugged physique, chiseled features, and the fact I’m a celebrated fighter pilot.

Because of my extensive experience in the world of females and due to the fact I was ridiculously successful in these endeavors, I have generously decided to share my wealth of knowledge with all the would-be Romeos who patronize this Blog.

STAGE ONE: The Planning

It is important to plan your efforts carefully, unless you are an expert at winging it in the presence of beautiful babes. I happen to be adept and can therefore afford to freestyle. In the early stages of your training, however, having a plan can save you valuable time and Humiliation Points. You’ll want to hoard up as many HPs as possible for use in the first five years of marriage.

Stage One actually has two sub-stages. The first of these is The Outfit™. Many guys assume they can simply toss on some old duds and swagger down to the local meet-n-greet. No. You must prepare carefully. Your underwear is very important, for example. Droopy long-johns are not acceptable. In fact, long-johns are not acceptable, period. My advice is to go out and purchase a brand new pack of briefs just for the occasion. They should be solids (black is preferred among the vast majority of women) and should fit snugly, just in case.

Don’t assume by the above advice I am assuming you will make such a positive impression on first meeting that the lady in question will request to inspect your undergarments, but it’s important to increase your own self-confidence in any way possible. Besides, there is always the possibility something untoward will occur that will force you to exhibit said garments against your will.

For example, let’s say you are leaning on the bar, awaiting your order of sarsaparilla, when a stunning example of feminine wiles flows into the room on a breath of heady, but tastefully applied, perfume. Every man in the place, including you, will immediately suck in his stomach and expand his chest. The sudden decrease in waist size could, shall we say, lead to a massive expenditure of Humiliation Points. If you’re also wearing a lousy pair of skivvies, you may as well go home right away.

The rest of The Outfit™ is not as important as the previous, but it has its place. You should plan according to the establishment. For example, you never want to wear a tuxedo to Bingo Night, but they are entirely appropriate for most other occasions, including mini-golf and horseshoe tournaments.

The second sub-stage is too advanced for now. We'll come back to it at a later date.

STAGE TWO: The Arrival

This is a tricky routine to get down, but once it is mastered, can spell success in even the toughest crowds. You want to arrive in style, but not so grandly it is assumed you are unapproachable. You want to make a statement, but not too loudly.

Limousines are definitely out. They say, “Admire me, ladies, but stay back. I’ve got a harem waiting at my suite.” You don’t want that. No, you don’t. Personally, I feel a carefully timed arrival via unicycle is a good way to go. Just be sure to knot up the tail of your tuxedo prior to the trip, in order to avoid getting it caught in the spokes. Nothing’s uncooler (except saying “uncooler”) than arriving at your destination wearing a raggedy tuxedo. Bad form, mate.

Upon arrival, bring your unicycle to a screeching halt in front of the establishment and pay the nearest homeless person a quarter to park it. They will steal it, but that is a small price to pay for this incredible image you are creating.

Next, wait at the front door for someone to notice The Outfit™, recognize your superiority, and open the door for you. If this doesn’t happen within ten minutes, unknot the tail of your tuxedo.

Once inside, take your time before getting a seat or standing in line for a sandwich. See, most people get uncomfortable when walking into a new place. They think everyone is looking at them and want to immediately blend in. No, you must stand out. To do this, simply stand in the doorway for a minute or two and gaze around the room indifferently. Once everyone has shaken their head and looked away, go ahead and sit down.

STAGE THREE: The Hunt

It’s important not to appear “on the hunt.” So taking a shotgun with you is really frowned upon. Unless you live in Texas, in which case, go ahead. You don’t want to appear backward. After considerable practice, you will begin to master the art of being casual, while still exuding a smoldering sexuality no woman can resist. And, no, setting your hair on fire will not help. Tried that. Ouch. Stupid woman beat my head with a Pomeranian.

Anyway, enough of these sordid memories.

Sit around the bar/coffeehouse/restaurant/wherever the hell you are, until a specimen catches your eye. Then grab her by the hair and drag her back to your cave, where you shall ply her with raisin bran until she agrees to give you want you want. Yes! A foot massage!

No, wait, that’s my tip for the Truly Desperate. You should not do that. At least, not right away. First, you should make eye contact. She’ll probably glance away immediately, as people are apt to do when actually looking a stranger in the eye, but don’t do the same. Keeping looking, not staring. If she looks up again, you’ve got her.

STAGE FOUR: The Kill

After a couple more glances, try smiling. Not a large, toothy grin, but a “Hi, my name’s Balderdash. Can I sit there?” smile. If she smiles back, even a little, rise from your chair and walk over. She will probably throw scalding coffee on…you, but she’s merely being coy. Ignore this behavior and sit down quickly.

You should engage in small talk. Be interested in her and don’t talk about yourself within the first fifteen minutes. Unless she brings it up. In which case, lie like crazy.

Once you have dazzled her with your exploits (none of which should include other women, by the way), tell her you’ve enjoyed the evening, but that you have an early appointment at Carnegie Hall and really must go. Ask for her phone number.

Call her within two days, if you want. Otherwise, cut up the number with a pair of dull shears, because now, you can have all the women you want. You’re welcome.

FooDaddy: Smooth Operator

As a single man in his twenties, The FooDaddy is prone to prowling likely venues for women folk.

Or, rather, he would be if he didn't suffer from a crippling lack of confidence and a tendency to become agitated and start vibrating. Putting this aside for the nonce, he makes an effort to bathe and deodorize hisself, and he sets out for a night on the town with a friend.

"Ready to go?" the friend asks, moving into the FooLair groin-first.

"Quit that," says The FooDaddy. He ducks into the bathroom to curtail any stray nose hairs and to make sure that both of his eyebrows are still the same size.

"Guess not," says the friend, following.

"Do these socks match my hairstyle?" asks a nervous FooDaddy.

"Womens!" grunts the friend, falling to the carpet and convulsing happily.

"Aw man..."

Arriving at a downtown coffee shop proximal to the town's university and thus likely to contain womens of The FooDaddy's age, the two friends enter with a flourish. The FooDaddy, wearing his sexiest pair of socks, kicks the door in and lets out a whoop. The friend slaps him in the back of the head in male camaraderie sure to let the indigenous ladytypes know what a laid-back couple of guys they were dealing with.

"Nobody's paying any attention to us," The FooDaddy whispers.

"That's because you didn't put any cologne on," the friend whispers back. "If you don't smell like a permanent marker, the girls don't want anything to do with you."

Having delivered his advice, the friend sidles off so fast that the air closed on the vacated space with an audible clap. The FooDaddy catches glimpses of him as he darts around the room like a chipmunk with a mission statement.

"Confidence. Right. Gotta act confident," The FooDaddy mutters to himself as he takes his place between a lumpy man with a game of solitaire going on his laptop and a table with three girls playing Scrabble. He thoughtfully leaves an empty chair for his friend, should he exhaust himself and need a base to return to before his next mission.

Time passes.

The FooDaddy realizes that he does not have a coffee beverage. This is highly suspect, this being a coffee shop.

"Ha! Ha!" he says too loudly, "I do not have a beverage! I'mma git me one!"

He picks his way through the crowd, dodging his friend, and stomps purposefully to the counter and squints up at the menu.

"What can I getcha?" asks the spiky man with a nose ring behind the counter.

"I, uh..."

"Need a minute?"

"No!"

"..."

"Yes!"

"Just let me know when you've decided."

The FooDaddy reads through the labyrinthine complexity of coffee beverages, and makes a mental note to do some research before coming back. Pine Mocchiatto? Bavarian Bullnut Blend? Iced Spatchiatto Chucklesauce? The FooDaddy searches in vain for something on the menu he can identify. Something with...coffee...in it.

"Something with," (pause to look back over his shoulder, conspiratorially) "like, coffee in it," he finishes in a low rasp.

"You want a cuppa coffee? Black?"

The FooDaddy brightens.

"Yeah! With sugar!"

The spiky guy tells The FooDaddy where the table with the condiments is located ("behind you") and the transaction is completed when The FooDaddy breaks out the Velcro wallet and rips out a couple of dollar bills. His change in dimes ends up in an air intake duct on the floor near his feet. He stealths back to his table.

"Don't you want your coffee?" asks the spiky coffee counter man. The FooDaddy makes a hasty retrieval.

Time passes.

The FooDaddy decides, now that his coffee is all cold, and his friend has alighted in the chair across from him and engaged in a brief tactical nap, that it is time to go talk to some ladies. He snorks down the last of his beverage and takes the empty cup along so that he looks like he knows what he's doing. He takes two steps to the table of Scrabble-ing girls.

"Hi," he says.

The two with their backs to him turn, and all three of them wave halfheartedly.

"I have coffee in here. Really," The FooDaddy says, shaking the cup and making sloshing noises out of the corner of his mouth.

"What kind?" asks the cute brunette facing him. She smiles, revealing perfect teeth framed by lip-glossed lips. The FooDaddy begins to vibrate slightly.

"Uh," he begins intelligently, and squints across the room at the menu. "Birch Clumpacchino. It's delicious."

The brunette turns and gives the menu a quick scan. "I don't see that up there," she says.

Thinking quickly, the FooDaddy counters: "It's a special order I came up with by my own self. They, uh, they normally don't make something this complex and studly."

"Can I try some?" the brunette asks.

"What's your name? I'm The FooDaddy," he blurts strategically.

"Michelle," she says, eyeing him suspiciously. "You're trying to change the subject." Her smile strikes home, and The FooDaddy staggers slightly.

"Nuh uh. I just don't want to...uh, I mean, I drool a lot when I'm, uh, I mean, this stuff is so cool it makes you, like, salivate a lot, and there's a lot of that in here. I don't want to give you my cold." The FooDaddy explains. "Heh heh!" he adds.

Michelle giggles. "You're an odd man. Do you go to GVSU?"

The FooDaddy, still standing uncomfortably about three feet from Michelle's table, explains that he has no ambition and prefers to spend a lot of his time writing stupid stories for his Blog.

"I bathe regularly, and I smell wonderful," he appends after the thought sinks in that maybe he shouldn't be so honest right off the bat.

"What kind of stuff do you write?" Michelle asks, taking a sip of something cream-colored from her cup.

"Nonsense, mostly," says The FooDaddy, happy to be getting somewhere. "I'm very talented."

"Are you?"

"Yes. Looky here! I appear to be out of whatever it was I told you I was drinking! Gotta, uh, gotta go get more! To drink!"

The FooDaddy bows politely to the ladies, and dives for the exit. In a couple of minutes, his friend joins him out on the sidewalk in front of the building where he has been looking extremely nonchalant.

"How'd it go?" The FooDaddy asks.

"I got three phone numbers!" says the friend. "How about you?"

"Birch Clumpacchino," replies The FooDaddy, remembering.