Alright, listen up ladies, now’s the time where I tell you how it is: don’t hate the playa. Hate the game. You know how it is.
Some find a stud like me, on the mack, on the prowl, doing my thing, [expletive deleted] irresistible… you know, the ladies are powerless.
Seriously, for a second, so I have a girlfriend *******– how are you baby? don’t slap me later, this is all in the name of journalism *******– but I figured, hey, my game must have gotten rusty, right? All that domesticity can zap a dog.
So I’ve decided to experiment with what my friend and poker teacher Justin Eckl calls “mad game.” Where else to go but the magic of Facebook?
Facebook is where the hotties come out to play, as any Sig Ep knows. Unfortunately, other girls come out to play too, so it’s very tricky to tell an M-80 apart from a fatty fuse. Let me introduce you to the first ruse of Facebook: the real face photo. Now, to tell you the truth, I love a girl with a beautiful face. In a pinch, that’ll do. What about a beautiful face and a beautiful body?
That’s what we go for in New York.
Now, ladies know this, fellas, they know that when presented with a pretty face, our horny spring-induced imaginations will fill in the rest. And so they take pictures of each other on prom night, hair all up, makeup all perfect. This is what you see.
But the sirens of Facebook know how to capsize a stud in the turbulent waters of ugliness and stuff. You gotta watch out for that.
So the prom-night siren is the first danger. The “boyfriend-back-home” tease is the second. Watch out when the girl puts up glamour shots, a tease in the interests (anime porn, cosmo sex tips), but then *******– these are key ********– she doesn’t list her dating status. Man, Homer knew what he was talking about. Stay away.
The last one is the goody-two-shoes. Low-cut shirt, aforementioned interest-list teases (“French art films” *******– come on, kids, we all know what this really means), dating status is single (yes!), and then you get to organizations and find… ******LCF****. Ouch!
So I decided to test my theory, but I couldn’t find a good mark. Then I got a hot e-mail from this freaky chick, Cynthia Thompson, last week. All it said was “xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx.” Now that’s a woman who knows how to get to the point.
Then I went to Facebook. She doesn’t have a profile! I see how it is. A real playa doesn’t just give up without a fight, so I tracked her down on find.Lawrence.edu ********– another great [expletive deleted] booty *******– nabbing tool, boys.
So I call her up. Extension 6525. It went a little something like this:
Ethan: Hey, yeah, uh, Cindy?
Cindy: “Yes, you’ve reached the Lawrence University president’s office.”
Shit. The president’s secretary. I had to think on my feet.
Ethan: “Uh, yeah, this is Joel Rogers. How’s the weight room coming?”
Cindy: “Excuse me?”
Dean: “Are you going to build that weight room for me or what?”
Cindy: “Well, President Beck is in London right now.”
Dean: “Oh, alright. Don’t bother calling me back.”
So yeah. I’ve got no more game, but I’ve got a fine girlfriend and at least I could pass along these life lessons.
Peace out. [Insert inside joke here].
Dean’s Fifth Column -jcr -dlh
