It was Mustard Night at the local diner, and the joint was packed with every two-bit hood that had a quarter. It was also Bring Your Own Gat Night, or so the....
Sorry, I got confused about whose blog I actually write. This “Hulles Redux” affair has me a little dazed. But I'm sure it will pass soon and I'll once again be the glib and facile hack you know and love.
I kind of like “It was Mustard Night at the local diner,” though.
But we're not here to discuss condiments, we're here to talk about sex: how to get it, how to keep it, and how to make it retain its value in today's uncertain economy. Remember my Razor's Edge post? Don't worry, neither does anyone else. It seems I was pissing in my whistle when I wrote it. Guys, you're not paying attention -- this stuff is pure gold. There really is no need to be horny and alone.
In fact, just for acting now you get this free pickup line, good for 30 days:
“Excuse me, if you're not doing anything later this afternoon, will you marry me?”
I recently tested it on a (very) young (very) attractive woman who works as a receptionist in a nearby hair salon. She giggled and said “Sorry, I'm busy this afternoon.” Now granted, this line didn't actually get her into bed, but that's okay because if it had I'd be in violation of several state laws and quite possibly some federal statutes as well. It did make her giggle, though, and that's worth something. Plus, she still smiles and blushes when she sees me, and that's worth a lot.
“Take off, hoser,” I seem to hear you say. “We want to get laid. How do we know that you're really such an expert on picking up chicks, eh?”
Well, my frisky friends to the north, here's how you know: I am a sex god. I have the silver tongue in the velvet glove. And here's the proof:
I am known as Mr. Consummation among certain of my female friends. Well okay, one, Lauren, but she's hot enough to count for two or three.
I have studied and mastered certain Tantric Sex Secrets from the Orient, and I now teach them at a local junior college for thirty bucks a head.
I am no longer allowed in many of the hotter local singles clubs, in the spirit of fair play towards the other unattached gentlemen who suffer sorely in the inevitable comparison with me and who spend more and tip better than I do.
When I do go a singles bar, I have to wear specialized infrared (IR) suppression gear in my underwear so the heat-seeking bitches don't get missile lock on my unit. (Hey, I'm talking to guys here, they'll know what this means.)
It seems that age is no barrier to the raw carnal desires that I inspire. Recently during Sunday brunch I was hit on by three generations of women from a particularly lustful family. You can decide for yourself if this is a good thing or a bad thing, all I'm saying is that I'm a sexy bastard.
I could go on and on, and often do, but perhaps that will suffice. As you can clearly see I am a thrusting, driving, penetrating sex machine that needs no batteries, comes with a limited warranty (don't go there), and isn't particularly difficult to operate if you read the simple directions in English, Spanish, French and German. And Portuguese. Especially Portuguese.
“But Hulles,” I seem to hear you say somewhat plaintively, “We're not the sex dog that you are. When we try some of these same lines that you tell us about we get completely shut down, eh?”
Still the same horny Canadians? First, it was “sex god,” not “sex dog,” get it right. Second, well, okay, I admit that not everyone can be a Hulles. If that were true, who would we pick up, eh? (Now you've got me doing it.) So sometimes, even with my excellent advice, when you go over to chat up young Ashley you are going to go bollocks up and she's going to look at you like you're something she stepped in while jogging with her other young, gorgeous and pretty much unattainable friends that I resent too, come to think of it.
But never fear. Upon those very rare occasions where I got the brushoff, I carefully recorded my responses to those tasteless wenches just in case I ever wrote a sardonic postmodern humor blog. Here are some of these responses, in ascending order of calculated ego damage:
“I'm sorry, I mistook you for anybody else.”
“Excuse me, sir or madam as the case may be, I didn't mean to intrude.”
“You're mistaken, I wasn't hitting on you. If I wanted to hit on someone I'd be in another bar talking to someone twice as pretty and half your age.”
By the way, hint from Hulles: never be overtly rude to the female unit who just disrespected you and turned your ever-fragile male ego into a plate of quivering aspic. You can think that it would be pleasant to use her ovaries as a garnish in your martini, but don't say it. And certainly don't do it. Relax. All you have to do is drink more. If your Scotch Goggles are the right prescription, eventually Ashley's friend Flatula will look like Angelina Jolie.
There, that should take care of you. Now go eat french fries with gravy and watch hockey games and leave me alone, I've got work to do. Then I'm going to stop and buy a pack of cigarettes and an alibi on the way home from the diner. It was a Mustard Night I'll remember as long as I can....
-- Hulles
2 comments:
Lucky for me Hulles, I already have a girlfriend, although I'll have to lock her up when you're in the neighborhood. Since having a sex god like yourself in town is akin to taking up residency in the local monestary, the only solution I can think of for us human males is to wait until you've satiated yourself on felmale flesh and then quickly ply our wares on the frustrated (but obviously still horny) castoffs. It's either that or stay in to read your blog and contemplate your prowess.
"Satiated myself on female flesh." I like that a lot. Trust me, it's been long enough that the satiation point would probably not be reached until the start of the next millenium, at which point I'll be able to make some real money again by scamming companies into hiring me to review their software for Year 3000 bugs.
Really funny comment, thanks lots. Are you back in town now? If so, what's your girlfriend's cell phone number?
Post a Comment