How to Not Get Laid by These Chicks



Take her to a Matthew Barney show, like inside his refrigerator with all that waxy stuff; say "hey, this reminds me of Beuys' work—man, it's fucking freezing in here," mispronouncing Beuys. Go to the museum store by the lobby afterwards and look at weird stuff designed in Japan; tell her she looks good in that plastic wobbly thing and does she want to come to your place to see your early Warhol print. Take her home and realize you left your Die Hard 2 DVD on the coffee table with last night's Panda Express. As she's leaving, say "my bed frame is Bauhaus, I think."


Go to a book signing with her and make fun of the author signing the books. Comment on how backwards major publishers are; say Djuna Barnes, Gertrude Stein, and Lydia Davis are your favorite writers to show that you are progressive and non-patriarchal in your taste for women's lit. Tell her she looks really sexy in those thick glasses and you got a boner harder than Pynchon's last novel; get smacked by soft hands and notice those unblinking pearls of hurt; put Mansfield Park back on the shelf when she storms out.


Email her on and off for half a year, then finally send her a gchat invite; when she declines it, wait two hours then email her asking was it because you are "invisible" (on gmail, and symbolically); tell her you blog for popular websites and that 30-35 people visit your tumblr a day; ask her what's the closest airport to her city, and is there a Hertz rent-a-car kiosk there. Ask her if her twin mattress squeaks much. When she finally emails back "please stop before I block you," take a screen-shot of that and email it to her thinking you're being meta. Then unfriend her.


Ask her where she buys her mascara and reply, "totally, CVS rocks"; try to relate to her by talking about how living an upper-middle-class life in suburbia made you pretty emotional too, when you were 14.


Get into an argument on whether or not wearing a Mötley Crüe Dr. Feelgood t-shirt is or isn't ironic. Offer that irony is to hipsters what Allah is to Muslims: a word which precludes rational discussion by alienating the uninitiated. Have difficulty opening a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon due to chronic fingernail biting. Ask her if she's really broke, or just doesn't believe in deodorant. Ask her if the sunglasses she is wearing inside the dark bar make the dark bar darker.


See an old 42-yr-old in the cat food aisle at Petco. Stand next to her looking at Fancy Feast salmon pâté. Tell her you had a cat once, but when you came home from a three-week vacation it was sleeping forever on the bathroom floor. Tell her now is her last chance to marry and have kids, and that you got a lot of "kid sauce" in your sack. Then walk over to the chinchillas and make facetious humping motions, like you are humping them. Say "haha I don't want no spinster."


Your chances have never been better. Notice her at an Irish pub leaning heavily against the wall, near the pay phones in the back. Notice the glimmer of what appears to be either vomit or hot wing sauce on her left thigh. Go over to her, smell cologne from other men, most likely Italian-Americans; when she doesn't notice you encroach, plug her nostrils to test if she's still breathing. Pray that her pants are not too tight to remove without Crisco. When she suddenly screams, calmly walk away.


See her reading "The Economist" at a café and approach her from behind. Carefully lean over her shoulder and scream HAVE YOU TAKEN THE LSAT OR GRE? I BET YOU GOT A REALLY HIGH SCORE. YOU LOOK LIKE YOU WENT TO SARAH LAWRENCE. Say you have a subscription to "The Economist" too; tell her you are bilingual, which will work wonders when she booty calls you over to such diverse places as New Haven or Cambridge. Talk about global trade, China, derivatives, the falling dollar, and the rising of your pulse because she is so lovely. Accidentally knock her latte over, and apologize for your low SAT score.


Crunchy chicks are the outdoorsy type who like to hike and camp. Of free spirit, the world is their bedroom (and toilet). Not to be confused with hippies—whose lifestyles are implicitly political and somewhat aggressive—the crunchy chick simply lacks the penchant for bathing. It's easy to not get laid by a crunchy chick. Just stay 10 miles within any metropolitan city, and look away when you see hairy legs.


Temp at Goldman Sachs for two weeks "reorganizing" their files by way of shredding papers, after their Equity Research branch is audited; notice an attractive professional woman, a Jr. Account Executive dressed in Ann Taylor "business casual." Read Rilke's The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge at the kitchenette during your lunch breaks hoping she will notice and ask you what you're reading, so that you may impress her with how deep and depressed you are. See her get picked up one Friday night by an attractive man who looks like he makes $200,000+ a year and has a 7.5" penis. Say "fuck Rilke," and quit temp job.


Crash the local Lutheran annual potluck; bring mayonnaise salad (shredded lettuce w/ mayonnaise, maybe croutons). Say you have the same initials as Jesus Christ (this will only work for a fraction of you). Nod in agreement when she prosthelytizes you about the second coming. Tell her that her boobies are proof that there's intelligent design, and Darwin must have been a fag for thinking those knockers simply evolved; when she says thanks but she's saving herself for marriage, work on her aunt, who did the same but is now divorced.


Tell her that looks aren't everything, and besides, you're legally blind so you'll simply remove your glasses when you "do her," and if she oinks maybe her nose will seem less out of place.

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