Wednesday, January 12, 2011

Chat up lines

A flashback to a time before I was respectable:

They say women like a man who makes them laugh, who's capable of surprising them. I went up to this girl in a club and asked her "is it cold in here, or are you pleased to see me?"

So she hit me.

Undaunted, I went up to the next girl I saw and said "hello, are you tired?"

She said "what, am I meant to say 'why' so you can say 'well, you've been running through my head all night'?"

I said "no, you've got bloodshot eyes, your hair is a mess, your skin's terrible, frankly you look exhausted."

So she hit me.

I sauntered a little further into the club.

"Hi," I said, "was your father a thief?"

"What," she said, sounding rather jaded. "Am I meant to say 'why' so you can say 'because you've stolen my heart'?"

"No," I said. "Because you look like a criminal."

So she hit me.

I didn't give up, I strolled up to the next girl, and I was planning on the classic "Got any Irish in you? Want some?"1 But maybe concussion was starting to punish me: I muddled my words up, asked her if she wanted any Irish blood put in her.

Women don't like being approached by unsolicited freelance blood transfusionologists, apparently.

Also, she hit me.

Perhaps this approach wasn't the right one. Maybe I was doing it all wrong, these subtle attempts at humour falling on deaf ears. I went up to the next girl.

"Do you like fisting?"

"I beg your pardon? Are you suggesting I enjoy having clenched hands inserted into my most intimate orifices, often with excessive force and insufficient lubrication, for the enjoyment of myself and/or my partner?"

"No," I said, "I just want to know if you're going to hit me or not."

1 An alert reader will realise I'm being fundamentally dishonest here. The closest I've been to being Irish is getting ruined on Guinness in the Swan in Stockwell.


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