He sent me this photo today. I didn’t follow much of his advice at all… maybe none. And guess what? I didn’t get laid. I hate that he might have been right. About anything. Ever.
Got this while I was asleep.
The “rift” between men and women began at the onset of humanity, when a specific group of new humans (men) realized that they were unable to technically produce new life like the other specific group of humans (women) were able to do, so they beat most of them (all the strong ones) to death and kept the weaker ones, thereby breeding selectively (in a sense) the weakest humans (women) with a terrible emotional burden and an acute sense of self defense and paranoia at birth, making them irrational and hard to deal with forever, as it all exists in their DNA and makeup. I realized this once when I was tripping balls on mushrooms, so it must be true.
Think of it this way, and save yourself the four grand on Psych 101: When I’m talking to a women, any woman, there is always one salient (look it up!) fact no matter the situation, and that is this… That if I wanted to, I could kill her. Look, I don’t want to do that, but the fact remains, and whether she knows it or not, that fact exists between us. So I begin all encounters with woman at a distinct advantage knowing that if I were to lose my mind amidst talking to her about how her sister’s going to try out for American Idol, I could crumble her up into a little ball of woman paper and throw her in the trash, where she may or may not belong. I once expressed this exact sentiment to a Women’s Studies PHD candidate, and she slapped me in the face. But I SHIT YOU NOT, two weeks later she was feverishly blowing me in a drunken haze, making weird grunting sounds and not smelling very good. Needless to say, I never spoke to her again. Thanks Mildred!
Just remember this shit when you’re at the bar this weekend.”
Fair enough… He attached this photo with no explanation. Looks like whatever he’s doing is working.
Seriously, his imagination is boundless. That, or it’s bound completely by strange sexual thoughts:
“I was just thinking about Gloryholes. Why are they called that? I can’t think of anything less glorious than putting your boner through a hole without knowing what’s on the other side. They should be called Danger Holes, am I right?!?!?!?!
So seriously, don’t ever use a gloryhole.
PS: Fuck you!”
Glad he sent me this. There’s a gloryhole near my French class that I was TOTALLY going to use before this!
I guess he can’t talk about this shit with his co-workers.
“I wonder who invented those workout pants for girls that outline the pussy perfectly once the chick works out. Put that dude in the hall of fame.”
Or lack thereof. These may or may not be good tips. Use them at your peril:
At some point or another (hopefully often) you’re going to be so stinking drunk when talking to a girl that by the time you ask for her phone number, you’ll have forgotten her name. In my day this didn’t matter as much because cell phones weren’t ubiquitous (look it up) so people wrote their name and number on pieces of paper and then gave them to Carrier Pigeons to bring them to you. Alas, the times have changed. Here are some tips on what to do once you forget the name of the girl you’ve just made out with…
- Grab a nearby friend, square her up to him and say, “Hey, this is Jeff!” or whatever your dumbass friends name is. 9 times out of 10 that will work. But if she just goes right back to thinking about Us Weekly and her new diet…
- Hand her your phone confidently and say “Give me your number.” This way she has to enter it in herself. If she’s testing you and doesn’t…
- Ask “How do you spell it?” Warning: I did this once and the girl said “Kim? You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” Still, I got her name!
- If those both fail and you just get the number, remember to enter it as a combination of what she looks like and where you met her. For instance, “Hot Blonde Kegger” or “Bitchy Redhead Dark Alley.” After that…
- Call her late at night from a campus phone, way too late so there’s no chance she’ll answer. Her voicemail will give you her name. If it doesn’t and you get that fucking robot bitch talking about numbers…
- Have a friend call at a reasonable hour and when she answers have him say “Sarah?!” like he’s all harried because someone died. When she says “No” have him say, “Oh, shit, sorry. Is she there?” When she again says “No” have him ask, in a very confused manner, “I’m sorry… who is this?” Most reasonable people will answer.
- If none of these work, just go out with her anyway and make up some story about how people used to make fun of your name. Ask her if anyone did the same for her. I think they did a Seinfeld episode about this shit. If she says “No” still and isn’t getting it, just punch her in the face and run away.
Hope that helps!”
I’m kind of annoyed that he assumes I wouldn’t know the definition of “ubiquitous” but I guess some of that might have been valuable.