If you’re like me, you’re having sex RIGHT NOW. Oh but you’re not, loser. Unlike you, whose penis is probably well-pantsed, I’m what you might call a “pickup artist.”
But, you ask, what’s a pickup artist? A pickup artist is a guy who, using only his brain, can convince women that he is somehow bone-able. Think of me as a factory that turns the ore of sweet talk and compliments into the refined alloy of satisfied moans, thereby producing oral sex as a byproduct, which in turn is dumped into the river and gives the nearby villagers leukemia.
It’s really not that difficult. All it takes is lying to women. Or does it? Yes. Yes it does. See what I was doing there? I was lying.
During the “size-up” stage, I like to find a certain aspect of a girl’s life that is obviously important to her, and pretend it’s my own. If she’s wearing a red dress, she’s probably uninhibited and confident. Tell her how confident you are about not having inhibitions. If she’s wearing a suit that controls her immediate environment so that the vacuum of space doesn’t cause her body to expand uncontrollably, she’s probably an astronaut. Tell her you once went to the Exploratorium without getting high first.
After I’ve got my foot in the door, I like to pretend to have emotions. I’ll bring an onion to the bar, which’ll cause fake tears, and a picture of my stepdad, which causes very real anger. I’ll sidle up to her, crying and yelling, and she will be overcome by moisture. Most of it will be hers.
Okay, ladies, balls in your court. Just try and not have sex with me after I drop a line like, “I am to sex what Henry Kissinger is to jowls.” On an unrelated note, here are some vitamins that only work when mixed with your Bacardi.