Recently, after a casual final-week tryst between myself and some drunken floozy I picked up at the local pub, a friend of mine asked me why it seems that I “got no problem hitching the pootie ride” and he does. After ordering a shot of whiskey (in an effort to chase the phrase “pootie ride” out of my head) and following that up with a couple of beers, we got out our Sharpies (Terrell Owens accepts no substitutes so why should we?) and listed out the reasons he does not get laid and I do.
1. He cares too much.
Everywhere he goes, he focuses all of his attention on the opposite sex, going through all the trouble of introducing himself, buying girls drinks, and lying about his occupation and education while wearing five hundred dollar outfits and one hundred dollar cologne. I, on the other limb, digit and/or extremity, focus most of my attention on the bartender, who can best influence my budget and buzz. Women pick up on this, get wet, and await my charming pickup lines. All women want to date an abusive alcoholic (they love drama) and I make a very obvious first impression: I am a raging alcoholic who really doesn’t care about them. Don’t ask me why this works. I stopped asking why anything works or doesn’t work with women about fifteen years ago when Suzie Tackett kicked me in the shins because she thought I was cute. All I know is what’s true, Boo (I am very white).
2. He dates them.
Every time he gets serious about a woman, he shows up at her residence with flowers and chocolates, wears nice clothes and opens doors for her. This is all well and good if you live in fantasy land, but I live in a world where two people eating dinner is just that: a freaking meal. Dating is stupid; it puts undue stress on two people who are already working hard to talk themselves out of (or into) sleeping with each other. There is only one excuse for taking a woman anywhere you weren’t already planning on going alone: the sports lull. There’s a period of time between the end of football season and March Madness when I’m so bored, I’ll actually by flowers. Oddly enough, women sense this and I never get any play during the sports lull (see point 1: never care too much).
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3. He is sensitive.
I have heard my friend say lines like, “She and I didn’t connect” and “I didn’t think Sheila and I were made for each other.” Chicks want to be chicks, not DATE chicks (except for, you know, some of the more open minded chicks). I, on the other hair follicle (why not?), am very insensitive. I often insult women while complimenting them (for example, I once told a chick she had a sexy gut and she was offended by the use of the word gut—women, can’t live with ‘em, can’t compliment their guts) and I never seem to remember anything important like their names. Maybe this is because I’m always drunk. Oh well. Who cares?
4. He expresses himself intelligently.
I can listen to my friend drone on about the different archetypes in American literature without ever getting bored because he is an interesting person who chooses interesting topics. Women want to talk about themselves and their friends and their parents and oh, well, damn near anything that has to do with them. When hanging with a female, I pretend to be a Fox News reporter lobbing softball questions at the Republican reps. I say things like, “Wow, I’ll bet that made you mad.” Ironically, this behavior requires less effort than just being myself, so it’s totally worth it.
5. He has a small penis.
This, however, is totally his problem.
I hope these five items have helped you understand why I have sex regularly with strange women and my friend does not. In doing so, I also hope that I have allowed women to look at themselves under a brighter light, while providing men with the opportunity to take better advantage of women’s sensual goodness.
But I really just wanted to put my friend’s name in this article:
David Ferraro
. Now pay me that fifty bucks you owe me you bet-welching fuck.
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