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.
