Wednesday, September 4, 2013

Back When I Was A PIMP.

Back in the day I thought I was a pimp.  And yes, I did just use the phrase “back in the day” so go ahead and date me back to when the Fresh Prince was still on the air. Yes, I am that aged. I’m talking about a time when 8th graders played with giga pets and people actually used telephones to have regular vocal conversations with one another. #oldtimercommunication

For full effect, download “Hot in Herre” by Nelly, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.  Oh and for the record, that is not a spelling error.

Today kids I want to tell you about the time when I used one of the most shallow forms of flattery ever created in hopes of wooing a woman’s heart. Something that has been abused by meatheads and amplified by cocktails for decades; the classic, the cliché, the I’m-a-douche-for-even-thinking-this-will-work-mentality, pickup line. 

Seriously people, these things are practiced as actual mating rituals by people with IQ scores a buffalo could challenge. And due to their overwhelming rate of embarrassing failure I would more likely rely on “The Naked Man” to win over a Chica than a cheesy reference to her abundantly large booty. Statistically speaking, “The Naked Man” has a higher success rate than if you were to ask a girl, “Do you have a library card? Because I am checking you out.” Oh, don’t know what “The Naked Man” is? Go Netflix HIMYM S4E9. It will be legend, wait for it…

Dary! Legen-dary! It was Homecoming week of my Senior year and the mid-puberty, pimple-cracking kid that I was decked out with Girbaud jeans, Dr. Marten sandals, and my sleek and sexy Roy High Royals football jersey went to get ice cream with a couple of buddies.  In reality, I shouldn’t have been that proud of the jersey I was wearing, when our team had gone a stagnant 4-27 over the last three years and didn’t have a snow cone’s chance in Hell of winning another game that year. But I didn’t care. I was a Senior in high school, eating Cold Stone with my buddies, showing off my ties to a less than mediocre football team. Again, as stated in the first sentence, in my mind I was in the same category as a man who markets women for personal favors, a.k.a. a pimp.

Gulping down a bowl of Rocky Road I was on my own cloud nine. I was the man. I almost thought all creatures in the Weber County area should honor me with a rose petal carpet. I was Ron Burgundy before Ron Burgundy had even been created.  While basking in my glory over a chocolate dessert, my good friend Jake Campbell posed a challenge that would change my life forever.

Jake: “That girl dishing out the ice cream was pretty hot wasn’t she?”

Me the pimp: “Dang straight she was.”

Jake: “Dude, I dare you to go hit on her.”

Pausing for a moment I had to realize my circumstances. On one side I had the option of continuing my reign as the P.I.M.P. of Weber County where women would flock to me like the salmon of Capistrano, and knowing my track record thus far in life this ice cream server would be at my mercy.  On the other hand, there was the infinitely small sliver of a chance that I would make myself look like a complete doofus, and could be classified in the ridiculously large category of blockheads who thought a wordy pun about a girl tumbling from the sky like an angel or something would get her to fall ravishingly in L-word with me. 

But what did I care? I was Brock Seizure Boy, P.I.M.P. Bybee. I had a Pog collection that would make most high school bullies cry. I made a mean $5.15 an hour refereeing third-grade baseball.  I could do whatever I wanted and didn’t care one bit about what other people thought of me.  

And so I took Jake’s offer, thus eternally classifying me into the category of an arrogant pickup line poser.

Walking up to the counter with my chest sticking out, and the shoulders of my jersey ruffled up in hopes that the damsel would be impressed by my exaggeratedly-inflated ego and/or nonexistent upper body physique, I got the server’s attention with a quick head nod.

Me: “So can I get a sample of that chocolate chip cookie dough?”

She scooped me up a tablespoon helping without even blinking.

Me: “Mmm… That was good. Can I get a sample of that raspberry sherbet?”

She recycled her service unhinged by the table full of offensive linemen in the background who were both drooling over her and about to break out in high-fives for my vanquishing. They were waiting in anticipation of my next line. The kicker. The one that would reel her in. The one that would give me official “PIMP” status.

Me: “Mmm… That was even better. Say, can I get a sample of you?”

Cue a recycled clip of the socially awkward cricket sound, and mentally play this in my head for what seemed like an eternity while I sweated out my manhood waiting for her response.

Her: “What? What did you just say?”

Me: “I uh…I said…Can I have uh…a uh…a sample of uh…you……………….? Please?”

Her: “Get out.” She said pointing at the door. “And never, ever, come back.”

Picking my dignity off the counter I lowered my head in shame like a rejected Charlie Brown and walked out of an ice cream shop I would never lay my foot in ever again.  

Why am I now recounting this on a Wednesday night you may ask? What’s the moral lesson for you to glean from this that you can chuckle over when you’re browsing the rest of your Facebook newsfeed? What’s the point of this entire story?

Nothing really.  I just thought using self-degradation over 1000 words or so would put a small smile on your face for a few minutes. That’s the way this blog usually works anyway, isn’t it? Everyone says that hindsight is always 20/20 and that we oftentimes regret a large chunk of choices we made in our lives. But as for me, as for my one and only failed attempt at using a play on words to get a girl’s number, I would say the exact same line. I would recreate the exact same story. If I didn’t, how else am I supposed to learn anything in life, or keep you entertained for longer than four minutes twice a week?

There, that should do it. There’s a deep meaning for you to chew on until Sunday morning.

What do you think?
5:57 PM