Wednesday, December 24, 2008

Show Out--Spread the Gospel

Things will be quiet around here for the next couple weeks as I use my keyboard to expuond my virtues as a potential MBAer, rather than the life of the party.  But, I wanted to let everyone know that me and The Professor seriously showed out this weekend.  

That reminds me, now that I have another forum for cross-promotion, I'm going to pimp my definition like there's no tomorrow: 

If you're with me, let me get a thumbs up.  

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

When Bladders Attack

My friend Gingerbread Girl, as she usually does, had an awesome story for me when we were out on Saturday night. It had gone down one night earlier, and she had barely slept, but seemed to be sustained purely on the hilarity and ridiculousness of the previous evening.

This one starts, as many good stories do, with her trying to make an ex-flame jealous. At the bar the previous night, she started scoping dudes when her ex-boy toy showed up with his new girl. One thing led to another, the pawn she was using to incite jealousy became a king (ok, maybe a bishop? they like doing freaky stuff), and said dude was brought home. Gingerbread is a lady, so I'll skip the details here, but suffice to say they tried to have a good time but were a little too drunk to do so.

This is where the probaby predictable plot twist comes in. Gingerbread girl wakes up and notices that she is soaking wet. Now, mind you, this was a little bit confusing because, as I said, she hadn't had enough of a good time to be sweating profusely or even a little bit. After feeling around, smelling herself, and observing the passed-the-fuck-out Bishop in the bed next to her, she reached a conclusion that is all-too-familiar to many of us. The Bishop had wet the bed, and he was snoring on, oblivious to his indiscretion.

At this point, I think we all have the same question (or, at least myself and Iceman did): "Did you take a shower?" The answer is no, folks, Gingerbread girl decided to wallow in the Bishop's filth and instead change clothes. She did take the liberty of laying down a towel before she climbed back into bed with the guy, and proceeded to spend a long night fake-sleeping, counting down the seconds until he realized his error and left of his own embarrasment.

So The Bishop wakes up, looks around, checks to see if GBG is asleep (she is fake sleeping), and realizes his transgression. Here is where the genius begins. He find a piece of her mail to identify her address (and maybe even her name), takes said mail over to the computer, and plugs that puppy right into Google Maps along with his destination address (I need to get this move in my arsenal). GBG then hears the door close, opens one eye to check for the Bishop, and then runs to the door and deadbolts it. Crisis over, right? Wrong. 5 minutes later, her cell phone rings. Ignore, obvi. Then it rings again. Ignore. And again, accompanied by knocking. The knocking and cell phone calling continue unabated for the next few minutes, before she finally relents and answers the phone to avoid waking up her roomie. The Bishop says "Hey, let me in, I just stepped out for a second to get my bearings." GBG sullenly relents. My theory: she lives in BFE, so once he realized that he couldn't really get anywhere without being driven, he decided to double back.

Aside: %age of guys who still would have had their phone on at this point is approximately 7%. Percentage who would have opened the door? Maybe 2%, god help them.

The Bishop triumphantly re-enters the house, all swagger and no shame. "Looks like somebody wet the bed last night!!!" He exclaimed, with a wink and a "this guy" thumb pointing back at himself. GBG, in no mood for joking, was nevertheless impressed by his lack of embarrasment. He then proceeded to ask for a ride home while continuing to crack jokes about his urinary malfunction. GBG sullenly relented (after all, she HAD promised him one the night before), praying for a time machine to somehow make this nightmare end. Along the way, while crackign her Ice Queen facade "Are you mad?" "I think you're mad...go ahead, I'd be mad too if some dude I met at the bar pissed on my bed," he asks her on a date (or more accurately, confirms that a date he had proposed to get into her bed is still in the works).

"So there's no way you're going out with him, right?" I exclaim at this point.

"Well, he WAS pretty funny and cute" replies GBG.

"Yeah, but he PISSED in your BED. You're seriously going to hang out with this dude again" I reply, shocked.

"I mean, I'm not sure yet, but I have to give back his camera that he left"

"Dude, that's the piss tax right there. Sell that shit on eBay and go buy yourself some nice new sheets"

"We'll see," she replied, non-commital. She was texting him all night and I have a feeling this is headed for round 2. For her sake, I hope she reconsiders. For the blog's sake, I hope they drink mug after mug of beer and pass out in the snow.

I was planning to post my own story relating to hooking up/bedwetting, but I guess that will have to wait. In the meantime, feel free to weigh in below. Is this guy's hubris in overcoming the piss, combined with the potential for future stories, enough to balance out this giant bedroom no-no?

What say you, dear readers??

P.S. GBG wants everyone to know that "[she] did shower that day... and clean [her] bed reall good!" And that she's not "nasty."

P.P.S. Mom, any time you want to stop reading the blog is fine with me. I have some stories to tell that I'd rather you not see. Don't worry folks, she will forget how to get to the webpage in about a week, I'm just trying to speed up the process for your sake.

Saturday, December 13, 2008

A Shirt and Next Post

Apologies to all the new fans--haven't posted in a while.  Don't worry, I have another good one in the works...I feel like the last post was a little like childbirth.  Something so traumatic, exhausting, miraculous, and life-altering that you just have to sit back and appreciate the miracle, while also recuperating, before you try to replicate it.

Meantime between time, I just found a white women's undershirt in my room.  A dilemma.  Why?  What happens if I ask the person who I think it is, and it's not hers?  Currently, I suspect an unnamed freak in my apt complex that enjoys slipping her (clean?) clothes into the drier before I remove mine.  Past items have mostly been of the sports bra/granny panty variety.  I suppose she find this a more amusing way to get rid of her old undies than donating to the Salvation Army.  If she was trying to be suggestive, wouldn't it be sexier with a note/phone or apt # attached?  

On the other hand, this mystery item could have been legitimately left behind.  Why do girls frequently leave without all their clothes on?  I guess it's just too much shit to keep track of.  Me, I like to try to leave all of mine in a nice, neat pile, which works equally well in terms of not forgetting it on the way out and making a quick getaway.

Anyway, if you are missing a size "P" (wtf?) white undershirt made in Sri Lanka (double wtf), kindly hallelujah holla back.

Friday, December 5, 2008

Top 10 Fake Identities

Partly inspired by real life, partly by Wedding crashers, this post is for everyone that hates small talk. These fake identities can get you in the mood to improvise during social situations, spicing up your conversations and potentially your love life.

Guys are always asking me "Steaze, how come when I get the courage up to actually approach a girl I like, the conversation often flounders after the initial what's your name/what do you do/where are you from bit?" Well, consider your reaction when you are asked those--I know mine is boredom. Sometimes you can get away with those questions if you have good conversational depth. For example, I'm grew up in/lived in 2 cities in the south, have tons of friens from the NorthEast, one of my best friends is from Florida, have family out West, and have travelled extensively in California. Internationally, I've been to over 20 countries in 4 continents and have dated girls from India, Brazil, and Ethiopia. So the where are you from question can go in a lot of different directions--the important part is that you get off the beaten path as quickly as possible.

However, the best solution to this problem is still making stuff up. If you answer these questions truthfully in every interaction, you will no doubt bore many people and be bored yourself. Especially in a bar situation, women are looking for a guy with creativity, a sense of humor, and the ability to set himself apart from the average schmuck. The next time you go out, try just blatantly lying. Not only will it improve your ability to think on your feet, it will also make you look like either a) a really funny guy (to smart girls/guys), or b) a really interesting/successful/unique guy (to girls/guys dumb enough to buy your story). Conducting conversations in this manner leads to fun/interesting social interactions, and can be amusing even when conducted with the most boring person on earth when you see how much you can get away with in the face of their stupidity/ignorance/gullibility.

Without further adieu, here are the top 10 fake identities:

Group 1: True Alter Egos

These examples are battle-tested...and I have the stories to prove it

1. "No way bro....I'm in your frat!"

If you see a d-bag wearing letters off-campus (and, yes, he is automatically a douche if he does this), it's a fun exercise to convince him that you are from his same fraternity. This can be even more fun and fruitful if he or she is in a position to hook you up. In order to really get it right, you'll need a phone with internet access. One occasion when it worked for me:

I was in St. Louis for a wedding, and needed to kill a few hours before the ceremony with some friends. I don't know if you've ever been to the Lou, or anywhere in the MidWest (besides Chi-town) for that matter, but there really ain't much to do but shop and eat at crappy chains. So rather than heading to the nearby mall to grub at P.F. Chiang's and cruise the aisles at J. Crew, we decided to take a tour of the Budweiser factory. Three things I really can't stand are lines, excessively touristy activities, and the beer Budweiser (or Bud Light), so I decided to entertain myself and help some friends out in the process.

Still recovering from the night before, a group of three of us had split off from the main tour group of 12 and attempted to order Jack in the Box, eat, and drive back to the factory before our tour started in 15 minutes. Due to the slowest fast-food experience in history, we didn't get back in time. Let's just say the post-Obama election surliness was in full effect for the counter workers. We were now faced with the obstacle of catching up to our friends with the droves of tourists in XL turtlenecks, St. Louis sweatshirts, and stretch-waist khaki pants in front of us.

As they gave the opening speech, myself and my two hombres scoped out the talent and plotted a way to tag along with the departing group, 30 minutes before our assigned tour. Noticing that the tour guide was rocking TKE letters and looked like a simple-minded Midwesterner, I decided to assume the identity of his frat brother. Quickly, I instructed my buddy to look up the TKE handshake on his I-phone (should this be the next I-phone commercial??). The text below is what he found (make sure to check out the comments as well--hilarious):

(From Wiki Answers)The informal handshake is as follows: To identify a real brother in public extend your hand as to shake it normally and then curl in your middle finger to scratch the palm of the other brother. Then the brother who got his palm scrached whispers in the ear of the other brother. "How High Does the Eagle Fly?" and the other brother is to reply: "Not As High As The Cross Of T_K_E".   And this completes the public identification process.
The Super Secret Formal Handshake is: Person A extends his right hand to the Kustos the Kustos takes his right hand and curls his pinky into an O and then Peson A does the same, then they clasp hands. Then the Kustos will take his left hand and put it over person A's right one with his fingers extended to the base of the wrist of person A, then Person A does the same. Then they
both lean forward and whisper the secret passwords. First the Kustos will say "We live for each other" person A will say "We grow together". then the two let go of the shake and the Challenge is complete. 

-This answer is absolutely, completely wrong. it isn’t even anywhere close to a correct
answer and as a frater of Tau Kappa Epsilon im offended that someone could
even put this horrible representaion of our grip on here

-Why would you ask something like this? its incredibly insulting to those of us who believe what it means to be a TKE.

-exactly, i went through my pledgship to obtain this and other sacred ideals and secrets that i share with my brothers all across the world not to share them with some slapdick on the internet who couldnt even get a bid

Clearly, the formal handshake would be way too hard to pull off. So, I practiced the informal handshake, including the incantations, with my friends. With a giant shit-eating grin on my face, and an overflowing of enthusiasm, I walked up to one of the tour guides and said "Hey man, you're a TKE? I'm a brother from the George Washington chapter" while thrusting out my right hand. (Side note: this was particularly delightful as TKE is one of the douchier houses on GW's campus, one of those that is just cool enough to think they are hot shit while everyone laughs at them, and in the case of my fraternity, makes fun of them mercilessly. You can read more about their shining example here). He eagerly reached out his own hand and began scratching my palm, an action which I mimicked. He didn't even ask me how high the eagle flies, which was somewhat disappointing. Really, I could have done all this without even looking up the handshake. The following is an approximation of the rest of our conversation:

"Wow, that's great man. You know, this is the first day on the job I've worn my letters and you're already the 3rd person that's come up to me. GW, that's in Washington right? "

"Yep sure is, which chapter are you from?"

"Oh, I go to the University of Saint Louis. Say, did you know (X), he transferred from our chapter to GW?"

"Hmm, the name sounds familiar. I think I remember meeting him once. I didn't know him too well though, I'm a little older--graduated in '06--and I think he came in after I was gone."
-me (took a bit of a risk here--he looked like he was still and school and the whole "I graduated" thing seemed like an easy out)

"Yeah, he's actually a junior now so you wouldn't have been in the chapter together. I think he stopped being active once he got to GW."

"Ohhhh, I remember him now. Yeah, he didn't really come around that often after he got to school. By the way, those are some of my other brothers from the chapter over there" (points at friends, we're in town for another alum's wedding.

"Cool man, how are you enjoying yourselves?"

"Well, we had a little TOO good of a time last night, you know how TKEs do!"


"Hey man, do you mind doing us a favor? We got separated from our friends and we couldn't get on this tour (shows card), do you mind hooking us up to get on this one."

(Bro hesitates)

"It's only 3 of us, don't worry" 

After looking around like he was letting us wheel off a rack of merchandise, he replies "Sure, man, bring them through at the front of the line"

As we got onto the earlier tour, I gave him a nod as we walked by and he told his buddy checking tickets to let us on. For the rest of the tour I sought to avoid the possibly incriminating small talk about our "mutual friends" or the fraternity in general. Hilarity ensued when our surprised friends saw us catch up only ten minutes later and we explaind how we had gotten through.

2. "Let's go man.....the chopper is waiting to take us to the Borgata"

The scene: a favorite local haunt, where I have had success recently meeting foreign au pairs (I know, random rightf?), one from Brazil, and one from Norway. With the economy going to shit, something tells me those days are over....but I digress. Me and some buddies were scoping a 5-set with a bona-fide dime as the centerpiece. Now, this wasn't what we have taken to calling a "DC Dime," a girl who is hot enough to be a 10 amidst the slim pickings in the district, but wouldn't warrant a third or fourth glance in hotbeds such as Miami, New York, LA, or any foreign country. This girl was legit. So much so that I--the default "starting pitcher" in the group--was too intimidated to approach. Today, I wouldn't be, but the force was not yet strong within me.

Anyway, my buddy Iceman was pretty jacked up due to the fact that our friend Slayer (gonna leave it up to you to figure out this nickname) was in town and we had a pretty rambunctious group. No lie, he walks up to the girls and drops the following opener:

"Excuse, do you ladies know how to get to Reagan National Airport from here?"

Your reaction to that is probably similar to what mine was: a deep cringe. What's worse, he had made us roll up as a unit to the limited space near their corner. We were standing single file, listening to him open at the head of the line. It was a recipe for disaster....unless, somewhow, we were wealthy and important...

"Yeah, I could probably get you there, why?"
--One of the dime's friends, a solid 6.5

"Well, we're actually heading up to Atlantic City and we have a helicopter that will be ready for us at 12:00. We're wondering when we need to leave."

Instantly, her face lights up. Notice that the Iceman didn't just come out and say "what do you do?" or "I do this" to drop his lie. He assumed an identity under other pretenses. From here, her shallow semi-hotness was drawn to this story like a moth to flame. The dime started to perk up as well, not wanting to be left out/unnoticed.

"Literally, I grew up right down the street. It will take you 5, maybe 10 minutes at the most," the average chick responded excitedly. She then proceeded to give us detailed directions as Iceman asked follow up questions, relayed the information to us, and pretended to text "the pilot."

At this point average chick and her friend were excitedly driving the conversation. The dime's curiousity was beyond piqued.

"I can't believe you guys are going to AC tonight!! That's crazy."
--average chick #2

"Well, we're celebrating a great quarter by our hedge fund...come meet my partners"

Notice how Iceman hooks them before he introduces the key information. The anticipation turned us into mysterious rich guys as the girls strove to understand how 20-somethings could afford to ball like that. Iceman Demonstrated Higher Value throughout this exchange.

After myself and Slayer were introduced, we began to chat up the girls. I ended up 1-on-1 with the dime. Like I said, the force was not quite as strong within me at this point, and I felt overmatched by her hot bitchiness. Consequently, when the conversation stalled, I invited the whole group to go with us to AC. I knew they would say no, at this point it was almost past midnight (they had forgotten the false time constraint). So I told them we had to head out, but to give us their numbers and we'd let them know the next time we went up. They eagerly complied and we left the bar laughing and yelling at each other "the heli is waiting, bro!," "AC, baby!," and "fire up the chopper!"

The next night we called them up and told them to meet us at a club where we regaled them with tales from our wild night in AC. Although I let Iceman get the starting pitching nod in this instance, I still got to perform my familiar role as The Closer.

3. The Gay Friend

This identity is a tip for all guys that often find themselves in an ambiguous zone between friend and hooking up with female friends.  Many times in this situation, you will be forced to hang out with your target(s) as the only male in a large group of females.  You will then be forced to either adopt one of the first two alpha-male strategies, or resort to one of the other two unenviable strategies to pick off one of the herd:

1) Play at least two of the girls in the group against each other.
2) Control the group through high energy, maintain your status as the focal point and choose your pick.
3) Single out your target of choice and steadfastly ignore her cockblocking friends.
4) Simply pick off the weakest one of the herd and feast accordingly. 

Clearly, none of these strategies is easy to pull off, and they are often usurped by outside attention.  As the sole guy surrounded by estrogen, marauding competitors will assume that you are gay or with only one of them.  The attacks by the vultures will then continue unabated.  Really, there is only one strategy to combat them: go gay.   Since this guy exists in every woman's head, it is all to easy to assume.  

Thanks to a steady diet of romcoms and chick lit, every deep-down woman wants "the perfect guy," an unrecognizably emasculated version of your average straight male.  Think Oz in American Pie: sensitive enough to put their feelings first, selfless enough to sacrifice his manliness in front of the guys, and romantic enough to enjoy bubble baths and nights spent staying in and snuggling.  A lot of guys would be too insecure to play this role. But my brother, The Professor, took on the mantle and played it perfectly--ending up with promising results.  The story, in his words, is below.                                                     

"My cute redheaded friend turned 21 and, because I couldn’t make the first birthday celebration, I went out a couple of days later with her and her friends.  I arrived at the restaurant late, the table was finishing up their food and drinks, but I noticed something was a little off.  I soon realized that would be spending the night with 7 girls as the only male.  Initially skittish, I asked myself, “Well shit, why the hell not??”  I then proceeded to meet the 4 girls that I didn’t know and engage in a bit of repartee. 

An interesting aside: the girls seemed to think that one man, out with seven women, is a baller.  However, being a man who understands said group dynamic from the inside, I educated them that it is usually safe to assume that said man is usually a) gay (and therefore “one of the girls”) or b) simply trying way too hard to get one of said girls, but reaping no rewards.  Regardless of this perception, I decided that I was having fun with a group of beautiful women, and there was no reason to allow societal pressure to prevent me from enjoying myself. 

Pretty soon I was told that it was time to hit a swanky martini bar in midtown.  Never having had a martini, yet having already discussed with the group the perception of one man with seven women, I let curiosity get the better of me.  Upon arriving at the martini bar, I find that the female population had dwindled to four, three of whom I had known for some time.  Being a man of some distinction, as well as one long-enamored with James Bond, I ordered a martini with three measures of gin, one of vodka, and half a measure of vermouth shaken until ice-cold and served with a bit of lemon peel.  The waitress was instantly impressed, and upon taking my order left me with a sultry glance, which I happily accepted as she was the kind of woman who, in another time and place, might have belonged among a tribe of fierce Amazonians.  The drinks came, there was much rejoicing.  As it turns out, James’ drink tasted like a deep glass of fine strained and purified potato alcohols; also, it had similar effects.  As the night wore on, strange characters came out of the woodwork. 

“Excuse me girls, I have a quick question…” The sound of a surprise attack alighted upon my ears. 

As I turned to the source of the horribly overused opening line, my eyes were greeted with an offending sight.  It was as though Danny DeVito had reproduced through double mitosis, my gaze fell upon two brothers who were, for all intents and purposes, identical to the famous funny man. 

The first brother continued his inevitable stampede towards disaster, “my brother said that this is a nice shirt and that women would like it, what do you think of it?” 

The offending shirt was festive collection of large, bright orange flowers (to later be described by one of the girls as “the color of regurgitated pumpkin pie, but brighter”) printed recklessly all over a white silk background.  In good conscience I could not allow my female companions to ward off these over-the-hill Casanovas alone. 

“Are you kidding me?!” I exclaimed.  “There is no way that you are going to try and open this set with that shit,” I proclaimed, recognizing instantly the trademarks of a wannabe pick-up artist who had seen the VH1 show too many times. 

The portly fellow recognized that I was a dominant force at the table, yet continued to attempt to ply his trade on the weakest (read: most genetically unfortunate) of the pack, no doubt in hope of landing an easy meal.  Many awkward attempts at conversation followed, such as, “yeah, my wife and I just split and I am back out looking for some fun,” and, “I am soooo thirsty, can I buy all you girls a drink?” 

At this point I realized that I could not legitimately claim four women as my own, and, therefore, could not rid myself of these clowns.  Drastic measures needed to be taken. 

I jumped into action insisting loudly (with a hodge-podge of accompanying flamboyant mannerisms) that Tweedledee would be buying me a drink as well.  The waitress, recognizing my sudden strategic shift, brought a Tap Light with, “EASY,” emblazoned on the front in capitol letters.  “Here you go, baby! So that everyone will know!”  Instantly grateful one of the prettier girls grabbed a handful of my hair and dragged my head into a big, wet, kiss.  This was to occur a number of times that night, whenever a DeVito cousin came after her.  This was not only a pleasant and surprsising perk of my new strategy, but the move lent legitimacy to the pretense that I was her gay friend, whom she could kiss without fear of resulting boyish infatuation.

The two-man strike force was in disarray.  Angry, overprotective, sexually frustrated male friends can be dealt with, and even made to appear foolish or (God forbid) “no fun.”  However, the loyalty of a group of girls to their gay friend is beyond contention.  Multiply the power of the gay friend with the admiration and appreciation gained from the complete sacrifice of that which we straight men traditionally guard with a zealot-like fervor, our masculinity; the result is a heretofore never experienced level of social immunity.  I was bulletproof.  The fact that I laid my self bare to the lashings of public opinion was the ultimate show of dedication to these girls.  It also didn’t hurt that most women simply love hanging out with gay men.  From on high in my estrogen-forged bastion I lorded over that little fiefdom that was our table, dictating the ebbs and flows of the night.

The most memorable moment of the night is perhaps not even my sudden transformation into bitchy She-man, guardian of co-ed virtue, but the audacious one-liner delivered haplessly by either Harry or Lloyd.  As stated before, the birthday girl was a strikingly pretty redhead, whose hair bounced about that night like a toothsome carrot leading the slow, plodding mules closer to the precipice than they ever would have ventured otherwise. 

The first brother, a modern-day Custer, charged brazenly, heroically, and most of all stupidly deep into enemy territory on a foolish maneuver: “I love your hair, you’re like a sexy Irish ‘lass,’ and you make me want to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day early…”  And so, like Custer, the brothers could only watch warily as the girls descended upon them, laughter and war-cries stinging their ears.  Like a Liberachi version of Sitting Bull, I watched these poor saps’ hasty defenses crumble; I couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride for my little warrior-women, and there was no arguing with the results of my unorthodox tactics.

It was time to go, the girls and I had enjoyed ourselves immensely, drank for free most of the night, and created a story which has been told to great effect at least a dozen times thus far.  As for all those who might believe that the “Straight Man’s Gaymbit” might close the door (so to speak) to all women involved, rest assured, nothing shows sexual confidence to a group of women like complete renunciation of all things manly coupled with the complete absence of bashfulness. 

If you, gentle reader, further doubt my assertions, know that the sultry Irish lass just left my apartment, and that we did indeed celebrate St. Patrick’s Day early."


4. The International Man of Mystery

If you've spent any time abroad, you know that American girls are universally sought after and cherished throughout the globe.  The reason goes beyond their comparitively loose morals.   American women aren't sluts--they just can't get enough of foreign guys.  Despite their corny jokes, tight pants, bad teeth, and insufferable creepiness, these guys clean up with our gals, both at home and abroad.  I'm here to tell you that you can be that guy.  Let's defend our turf, even if we have to dress in the wolf's clothing to do it. 

The key to this identity is the backstory.  It definitely requires the assistance and support of the rest of your crew.  You can go a lot of different directions here: I have played the Italian exchange student, who along with my Canadian friends (who introduced my story in hilarious accents) got loads of free food an swag at an on-campus event for International Students.  The annoyingly blatant Brit who hits on everything that moves is also an easy one to pull off--just make sure to use every excuse to mix in the appropriate slang (Omg, you say "rubbish" instead of trash.  That is SOOO cute).  But, as with all fake identities, you need the details to back it up.  Have a story as to why you are in America, which is even better when your friends introduce it.  Offer dry observations or ignorant questions that show your superior, European edge ("This George Bush, I don't understand why you like?").  Another fun one exercise of this identity is doing your dead-on "impression of an American."  See this Southpark clip for further explanation (  Fast forward to 17:50 of the clip " you have any non-dairy creamer." Priceless.

Clearly, our neighbors accross the pond are the easiest to imitate.  Going into any social situation with a British accent, no matter how dreaded, is guaranteed to spice things up.  This one is especially fun when, after a few hours of romancing a particular lass with your foreign charms, you invariably drop the accent due to drunkenness, accident, or just plain deviousness.  The shock on her face--and corresponding explanation, if you try to dig out of the hole--are almost worth the hours you spent imitating those detestable excuses for men.  I have used this extensively in the field, and with great results.

5. Scholarly One-Upsmanship

Douche bags have been using feigned scholarly prowess for centuries to woo unsuspecting young pupils, going back to the time before Socrates and his little boys. You know what I'm talking about: the creepy old professor who makes the hot girls sit in the front row. Or, more commonly, the 25 year old TA who is teaching the Freshman Writing Seminar because he's "passionate about English literature." These sleazes deserve to be exposed, and with a little finesse, you can do it. I'm not going to lie and say this is easy, it's probably a level 7, level 8 move. But when you pull it off, it feels oh-so-sweet.

One situation in which myself and my good friend The Farm used this was at a snotty wine-and-cheese graduation party stocked to the brim with intellectually snooty Honors Program students.  I’ve heard it said that every Honors student thinks he/she is the only cool person among a giant field of nerdy losers.  In our case, both at the party and during undergrad, this couldn’t be closer to the truth.  Nonetheless, we took a particular pleasure in mocking them and beating them at their own game.

When one brought up his fellowship on some intellectually obtuse anthropology topic, I claimed that I was actually starting a Marshall Fellowship the next year researching aboriginal languages in Australia.  The topic was obscure enough that I could answer his few challenging questions with vague, satisfactory answers.  Having stolen his thunder and attracted the attention of a couple females he was trying to game, I answered their next question with “Sure, I’d love to tell you more about it.  But I actually need to grab some more wine, why don’t you walk with me”

The Scholar was left in the lurch, confused and out-bullshitted.  He had busted his ass and missed all of those fraternity parties and bar nights over the past four years specifically so that he could excel in situations like this.  He had no doubt had to face his own academic douchebaggery as a result of my fake identity.

The Farm ate this up, and—I have to admit—proved even more adept at this gambit than me.  He made it appoint to blow up The Scholar’s spot, as well as that of his compatriots, for the rest of the night, using a variety of assumed identities that made it clear that he was merely making up stories to fuck with him.  By the time anyone at the party had figured out our ploy, we were long gone with our phone numbers and stolen bottles of wine.  In our wake, we had left bruised egos, lusting co-eds, and a depleted stock of booze.


Group 2: See-Through Avatars

These identities are best adopted as an alternative answer to the hum-drum answer to the question "What do you do," and can be used in early game to build a rapport through humor and creativity. They mostly involve verbal traps that you allow the target to walk in to.


6. The Love Writer


 Many times, when a woman asks me the inevitable "what do you do?" question, I answer with "I'm a writer."  It will invariably lead to an interested follow up question, "Oh, really??? What do you write?"

 "Well, have you ever gotten candy at Valentines Day"

 "Umm....yes"  She replies, even more confused and curious.

 "Well you know those candied hearts? I actually help to come up with the sayings."


If she's smart, at this point she will laugh and ask the conversation should go something like this: 


"I know, isn't it romantic?"

"Soo romantic"

 "Want to hear my best pieces?"



At this point, you can go in a lot of different directions, customizing based on her level of sexual permissiveness:

 "On You"  "Get some "   "I <3>

 The Borat series: “You like?” “Very Nice” “Pamela Anderson?” (follow up q: do you like Borat”)

 “I know, right?” “My lumps” “How much?” “Candy4BJ”


These all may or may not have been used by yours truly.  Also, they can easily flow into more teasing/joking/conversation.  At this point, you can even ask her to help you come up with some new ones:

 "I know I shouldn't be working on a Saturday night, but want to help me out with some?"


This can be a fun game and is a great icebreaker.  Grab a pen, a receipt/napkin, and enjoy.  See, isn't that better than "I'm a Legal Assistant?"

If she's dumb, you can just see how long she buys it and whether she gets the joke.  It can be pretty amusing.  Or you can say "just kidding, I actually write for Rolling Stone."  A relieved expression will cross her face, and of course at this point you will know that her intellect is such that she will buy any ridiculous proof of this blatant lie that you give her.   


7. Have You Met My Friend....?


Me and my buddy Costanza use this one on each other and our other friends all of the time.  It is great if your buddies have a sense of humor but are being too nervous/lame to approach groups of women.  Here’s the way it works: You create an identity for a friend and introduce him.  The more ridiculous the fake occupation/distinction/talent, the better.  He must then play along for as long as the set stays active.  Extra bonus points if he can turn it in his favor, and keep it going for the rest of the night.


Some Examples:


“Have you met my friend Costanza, we’re all celebrating his big win tonight”

“Oh really, what does he compete in”

“Believe it or not, this guy is actually into competitive rollerblading.  Crazy, right?  You should see a race sometime though, it’s really fun”


“Have you met my friend Steaze?  He’s the smartest guy I know.  He’s working on his dissertation at Georgetown.  Believe it or not, he’s going to create a car that runs on wind power.  Steaze, tell ____  about your project…”


“Excuse me, have you met my friend The Professor yet?”


“No, well check this out.  He was actually in a traveling midget—excuse me, Little Person—Circus until the age of 15 when he had a limb-lengthening procedure.  Insane, right?”

This game is often used on a more elementary level with the “Fake Birthday.”  As a reader of this blog, I trust you are more creative than that, but it is a fun one to pull on rival guys that could potentially encroach on your territory.  I’ve actually had it sprung on me to two ladies at a local bar that happens to serve 10 cent wings on certain nights.  If you choose to play this game, at least observe the code: you don’t blow up someone’s spot if you set them up with a “Have you Met My Friend, _____” or “Fake Birthday.”  In most un-dudelike fashion, these guys killed my game after I had leveraged the Birthday back-story all night, telling the ladies just before I number-closed that it was all a ruse.  But karma intervened, and I still got the digits, while they had to somehow go home and sleep that night.

8. The _____ Model


This is another good ice-breaker/fake career.  It actually works really well on actual models.  You can either play it out front or make them dig for the truth.


Scenario 1:

Girl: “What do you do?”

You: “I’m actually mostly doing modeling right now.”

Girl (skeptically): “Really?”

“Yeah, how about you?”


She will inevitably either continue to harp on the model thing or ask more detail questions.


“Oh, I work at Friday’s.  But are you really a model?”

“Let’s keep talking about you, who do you model for?”

“I work for Hillary Clinton.  What kind of stuff do you model, anyway?”


Again, you can choose to string this out as long as you deem necessary, even making up fake companies and products


“I actually model for Garmint”

“Hmm…I’ve never heard of that”

“Oh you probably wouldn’t have, they’re a hearing-aid company.  I’m actually an ear model”


“I’m mostly doing work with Joint Efforts”

“What is that?”

“It’s a company that makes athletic braces, I’m actually a knee/elbow model”


“Right now, I’m shooting with Last Resort Sports.  I’m actually an athletic cup model.”

“Come on, nobody models athletic cups”

“Well it’s your decision whether to believe me, but I speak the truth.  If you play your cards right/If you’re lucky/If you make the cut/If I’m in the mood, maybe you’ll see why that’s what I do”


At this point, again, you will have the inevitable divide between the ones that get the joke, and the ones that ain’t getting much.  I’d advise trying to use this on the former, but it can be fun to use on the second group as well.


Group 3: Some Yet-to-Be-Tested Ideas

These are a couple ideas I've kicked around recently, but have yet to try.  However, I have a feeling that they will eventually be classics.

9. The Obama Campaign

This identity really is designed for use abroad.  Barack Obama engenders very passionate feelings on both sides of the spectrum here in the states, but internationally, he is a rockstar.  Much of what foreigners know about America is tied to our politics, so if you can associate yourself with the most significant political figure since JFK, you automatically get a boost.  Tell foreign chicks you and/or your friend actually work on his campaign.  I guarantee you they have no idea that only 300,000 people have applied for 7,000 jobs in his administration, or that young people that work on campaigns are usually low level staffers, or that you are most certainly lying due to your vague answers to their follow-up questions.  In international game, you can be anyone you want back home in America, and a worker in the Obama administration is one of the best identities you can choose.  Again, though, be careful about how you introduce it:


You: “So what is your job here in ____?” (You will probably be leading the conversation, especially if it’s in English.  Don’t mistake foreign women not asking questions for a lack of interest, sometimes they just don’t know what to say or how to say it.)


Her: “I am—how do you say—hair cut?  What you are?”


You: “Oh you’re a hair dresser.  That’s awesome, my aunt actually owns her own salon.  Have you heard of Barack Obama?”

“Of course, he is very great man”


“Yes, I agree.  Me and my friends actually worked for his campaign.  We are visiting ____ right now because it’s our only break before we start work with the administration.”


“Wow, that is supercool! How is Obama like?”


“Oh, he’s a great guy.  Have you heard about how he plays basketball?  My buddy Iceman here actually plays with him all the time.  Iceman, tell her about how intense B is when he balls….”


One of our new President’s main goals is to repair our image abroad.  You can help in the effort by assuming this identity and helping the administration beef up its “international experience.”

10. The Whaler

My special friend “The Flame” has been complaining recently that the men of Boston of come at her with conversation stahtahs like:

“Baby, stop texting I’m already heah.”

“You girls live in Southie?  I love that.  My friend Mahty actually had this horrible situation.  You girls can’t put out cones in the winter for pahking.  Get it, that’s a fackin joke?”


Now this is a girl from a top-tier sorority who has very prodigious…talents.  These lines just ain’t gonna cut it—you gotta have game to get in her rotation.  Believe me, I know.  Anyway, she was telling me some of the fake identities/evasive maneuvers that her and her roommate adopted to dodge/fuck with Sal, Sully, and all of their buddies from Newton.    She told me that she had been introduced as “Joy” and “Deborah.”  I wouldn’t stand for this effort.  For some reason, the following idea popped into my head:


Why not say that you work on a fahkin whale boat?  You can curse like a sailor, heavily employ the Boston accent, test their knowledge and opinion on environmentalism, and really entertain yourself in the process.  The more questions they ask you about whaling, the more amusing the interaction can be.  Clearly, this can work for guys as well.  Though it probably wouldn’t get you anywhere.  The entertainment value could  be priceless, especially if you love doing the Boston accent like me:


“So we’re about 50 knots off the coast of Greenland, in this huuuuge fahkin storm, right.  We’re chasing this monstrous guy, this fahk would make Moby Dick look like a fahkin porpoise.  I’d gotten my hahpoon in him three owwwahhs ago, but this fahkin thing just refuses to be reeled in.  The cap’n is fahkin chewin my ass out: “You no good piece of shit!  You fahkin retahd!  Whey-ah the hell has your ahm gone?  You used to have the best god-damn ahm on the ship….


Anyway, the captain end up havin to shoot the poor bastahd with a scoped rifle.  He was fahkin pissed.  Some of the meet was ruined, but we still sold the rest off and had the best fahkin whale steak I’ve ever eaten that night.  Have you tried whale befah?  It’s huge in Japan, that’s where we mostly sell ahr cahgo.”

Say, have you met my friend The Farm?  This guy actually is a Whaler who is based out of Japan.  Speaks Japanese too.  Pretty wild, huh? 


 Group 4: Don't Try This At Home...Or Ever

 It's true, sometimes the fake IDs we choose can go too far.  This is one that I can say from experience you definitely want to avoid.  


The Fake Southerner


Speaking of the fahking Fahm.  Ok…I’ll stop now.  Speaking of The Farm, this guy has the balls to try almost any fake identity in any situation.  He really kind of lives his life through a series of alter-egos.  It’s kinda sick, but fascinating at the same time.  Before he became a traitor and started rooting for my Florida Gators, he used to be a huge UMiami fan.  I had a bunch of friends at VaTech, so we decided to make the pilgrimage to Virginia Tech for the game that year.


It was Halloween, and our hostess, Girl PowerHour, was having one of those nights where the pre-game is the endgame.  She has those often.  Not wanting to miss the chaos of Blacksburg on the signature party night of the year, however, myself and The Farm decided to head to a party at Kappa Alpha with one of her male friends.  Now, as most of you know, when we talk about KA, we’re talking about the most traditionally Southern (to put it nicely) fraternity in the country.  As soon as we rolled up in the back of our new friend’s Chevy pickup, a jacked-up Ford truck started hooting its horn, which played a rendition of “Dixie” each time.  The farm, being a New Yorker that happened to grow up in Fort Lauderdale, was fascinated with this display.  As we were introduced around the party, we realized it was a shit-show.  Half-full liquor bottles were indiscriminately strewn about, with an equal number of people leaning up against the fence puking/passed out as there were enjoying themselves in the backyard. 


The Farm, caught up in the excitement of Halloween—and lacking a costume—decided that he was going to assume the identity of “Bubba from Danville, VA.  There were a few reasons why this was such a fantastic idea.  As a Southerner, I can tell you that while many people think the accent is easy to imitate, we can easily tell when you are faking it.  Moreover, there is an inordinate amount of wounded pride that I can tell you is still left over from “The Glorious War” 150 years ago, and most Southerners do not take attempted imitation as flattery.  In fact, at a place like KA at VA Tech, you’re liable to get your ass kicked trying a stunt like that. 


Buzzed, and outwardly giddy over what he though was an enormously clever and well-executed fake identity, The Farm commenced to loudly proclaim his affinity for hush-puppies, the Hokies, and kicking Miami ass.  He told stories of the buck he had recently taken down, and for some reason kept repeating the phrase “Whooooooeyy, y’all sure do know how to party up yonder.”  I just kept thinking “he just had to fucking pick Danville.”  Although a pretty small city, it is close enough to VTech that many people know something about it, which was way more than The Farm knew as he attempted to answer their questions about which high school he went to, where he went to school, and whether he knew people. 


As he floundered, I began to edge away.  Our host had long since disappeared, and he wasn’t answering my frantic calls (he’d told us to give him a buzz when we had to leave).  As a portly, goateed Larry the Cable Guy look-alike in a camo vest questioned him, I could see The Farm’s story (and Southern accent) crumbling.  What’s worse, he was frantically trying to cover up the Miami shirt that he was wearing underneath his coat (great call there, buddy).  Having decided on a course of self-preservation, I had edged well away from the farm.  But, as I saw the impending disaster coming closer to fruition, with our ride nowhere in sight, I decided to intervene.  I grabbed him in one hand and a bottle of Jack in the other and hastily made for the exit.  Thankfully, Larry had gone to take his turn at the ice luge, so he wasn’t there to stop us.  As we exited the party with the stolen booze, I saw alarmed looks on some of the brothers faces: I had been right, The Farm was about one more “y’all” from getting his ass (and possibly mine) beat down all the way back to Florida.  By some miracle, they let us pass.


Exiting the party, I realized that we were on our own.  We had three options: go back into the party and beg our guy for a ride, hitch the 3 miles home, or call Girl PowerHour and have her drunk ass give us a ride.  The Farm’s Miami shirt and terrible fake southern made the first two choices impossibilities.  I figured calling GPH and hoping she’d sobered up was our only choice.  I certainly didn’t want to walk home.  It was freezing in the mountains of Blacksburg, and something about the combination of booze, alcohol, widespread gun ownership, and walking on the side of the road with The Farm did not appeal to me.  Of course, GPH was in her usual post-midnight state: passed out in a state of slumber that no cell phone ring tone, no matter how loud, catchy, and obnoxious, could hope to break.  We were on our own.  I took a deep swig of the firewater, and tried not to cry.


“Lesh juss call a cab” intoned The Farm


I didn’t even dignify this thought with a response.  Of course there were no cab companies in Blacksburg.  Who needs cabs in a place where nothing is within walking distance, and people drink fifths of hard liquor like cups of tea?  My next idea was to leave a series voicemails with GPH, alternately pleading, angry, and scared. 


“Pleeease call me back, all I want is directions.  We’ll walk, ok, but I have no idea how to get there!”


“Pick up your coddamn phone, woman.  Your friend ditched us.  Fuckin V-Tech.  How do you not have any freakin cab companies?? Got I hate Blackburg.  God I hate my life.”


“I love you, I want you to know that if I die tonight, don’t be upset.  I’ve lived a full life.  You are awesome—always remember that.  Sell my tickets to the game and buy yourself something nice.  Let my Mom know I’d like to be cremated”


Having exhausted all alternatives, myself and The Farm decided to do the only logical thing: somehow find our way back to GPH’s place.  Based on vague memory and directionalism, we attempted to make our way home.  Our conversational topics (and emotions) ranged from  “what if we die tonight?” and “just imagine, we’ll be telling our kids about this—laughing!—in a few years.”


We finally made it home to GPH’s place at about 5:00AM the next day.  I didn’t know whether to be more furious with her passing out or The Farm’s stupidity, so I just let it all go.  Fittingly, the next night VaTech crushed the Canes.  I looked on smiling, savoring the hilarious, potentially fatal lesson we had learned:


Never play The Fake Southerner.

Tuesday, December 2, 2008

A Thanksgiving Story

I'd like to share a little story about this fantasy basketball league I'm in, and some events that transpired over the holiday. For T-giving, I was at my grandparents house with my youngest bro (co-manager of the team "Whoop That Trick") and my younger bro, one part of the "Memphis Vagina Jihad" duo, which is currently in first place.

We had been talking about picking up Eric Gordon privately for a while, and he had 2 blowup games over the week. Surprisingly, he hadn't been picked up (I think due to the holiday), and we decided we were going to get him. Obviously, there's only one comp in the house, and as we went in there, who was just logging onto but Vagina Jihad himself!

We sat in silence as he navigated to the Fantasy Basketball page, where Eric Gordon was featured in a pickups article. Trying to throw him off the scent, I mentioned that he had been a disappointment so far. My co-manager and younger bro made a comment that went something like "yeah, didn't he come straight out of high school." Unswayed, my younger brother continued his holy war on the female organ by clicking on the link and beginning to peruse the article.

At this point, I sprang into action. I couldn't take it anymore. Standing behind the computer chair where he was sitting with his back to me, I felt a rush of adrenaline. In a Herculean burst of strength, I grabbed him and suplexed (shout out to Guile) him backwards onto the bed behind me. Despite the fact that the kid has 30 pounds of muscle on me, I gamely held him down while my co-manager sprang to pick up Gordon.

After about 30 seconds of struggle, though, my strength waned against the raging beast. Temporarily shaking free of my grip, Osama bin Vagina thundered over to the computer and swept his 15-year old brother to the side with one arm, as if he were a small sapling blocking his way to the Thanksgiving table. As I recovered my strength to mount another attack, he signed Whoop out and signed himself in.

But lo! From depths deep within me, I felt the strength of my ancestors coursing through my veins, compelling me to do battle once again and penultimately vanquish their less worthy descendant. Staggering to my feet, in one motion I removed and whipped my belt against the index finger of Ahmed al-Vagina, just as he was about to make the final click and pick up Eric Gordon, the savior of our season.


"What?" he responded

"Umm....nevermind. Come get some," I definitively answered.

With my youngest bro writhing in the corner, his arm shattered, the glint in Alotta Jihad's eye turned bloodshot, and he prepared to finish me off so that he could make the pickup. He made a sudden, mad dash at me, but underestimated my quickness and guile.

Keanu-Reeves like, I Matrix-walked around him using the sidewall and my staff, and in one motion jumped onto his massive shoulders, 6 feet off the ground. Balancing myself against the brute's girdth, I ignored the 150 pound advantage he had on my and conentrated in applying the rear naked choke.

He thrashed about like nothing I have ever seen, nearly bringing the entire house down!! But I held on. He threw his giant head this way and that, expelling gutteral screams that could not have come from a creature of this world. But I held on. He smashed me up against all four stone walls of the room for what seemed like an eternity. But finally, he succumbed to the lack of oxygen. Shattered, Whoop That Trick collectively dragged our bruised, broken bodies over to the computer, and the rest is history.

The End

P.S. Eric Gordon is available for scoring big men that are SF/PF eligible.

Sunday, November 30, 2008

The Mission

The Dhiarry was founded as an outlet for all my excretions: mental, physical and emotional. In the spirit of the old adage "you gotta make chicken salad out of chicken shit," it is in this forum that I will attempt to sift through the waste and drivel that is constantly circulating in my mind and spewing out of my mouth to find the kernels of genius, and make the resulting concoction in to a veritable "genius salad," to be enjoyed on a sandwich, a salad, on crackers, or even as a standalone treat. However you like yours, I'm sure you will find plenty of the necessary ingredient on this blog. So, enjoy, the first one's on the house.