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Jack suggests, “Maybe it’s a fetish. You like to bump uglies with the uglies, Billy?”
“No. I don’t have a thing for ugly girls.”
I beg to differ. Still, I give him the chance to explain himself. “Then why are they the only ones you’re hitting on?”
Warren squirms uncomfortably. “They’re just . . . easier. I like a sure thing.”
Matthew says, “You sold out Giants f**king Stadium six months ago. For you they should all be sure things.”
Warren avoids eye contact and picks at the label on his beer. “I don’t know. It’s like . . . I was with Kate for a long time . . .”
As if I could f**king forget.
“. . . and I never really had a chance to practice my skills, you know? And chicks in LA? They’re bitches, man—they’re hot and they know it. So, it’s less intimidating if I stick with the easy scores.”
There’s a story in the Bible about a guy who was a real mean bastard. One day he was walking down the road, and God knocked him on his ass. This blinding light came from the sky, and a booming voice shouted down from the heavens, telling him what he needed to do. How to fix his life.
That’s what this moment is like for me. An epiphany. A divine revelation.
If I can find Warren a girl of his own . . . if I can teach him the secrets of scoring quality pieces of ass . . . maybe he’ll be so distracted, he’ll finally stop sniffing around Kate. And maybe—just maybe—I’ll be rid of him. For good.
I have seen the path to the promised land, boys and girls. And it’s lined with pu**y.
Energized by the prospect of a Warren-less existence, I propose, “I can help you with that, you know.”
“With getting girls?”
I nod. “Getting top-notch girls. The kind of females you’ve only seen in magazines and wet dreams. I can teach you how to make it happen. Once you taste gourmet, you’ll never munch junk food again.”
Jack tells Warren, “Jump all over this, man. You’d be learning from the best. Evans is the master—before he gets married, they should bronze his dick, like DiMaggio’s cleats.”
Jack’s praise is flattering. And a little disturbing.
Still, Warren looks suspicious. “Why would you want to help me?”
I shrug. “I’m a sucker for a lost cause—St. Jude always was my favorite saint. Plus, you’re Kate’s little buddy. If I help you out, I score points with her. And that’s always a good thing.”
He seems satisfied with my answer, so I start with the basics. “What’s your game?”
“My what?”
“Your game plan. How do you approach these gorgeous LA women? What do you say?”
He scratches his head, like the dumbfuck monkey he is. “Well, sometimes I’ll rush over, looking surprised, and I’ll say, ‘Are you all right? Did you hurt yourself? That fall from heaven was far.’ ”
The guys and I start laughing straightaway. But Warren doesn’t. Then we stop.
I ask, “I’m sorry—were you serious?”
He looks away, slightly pissed. “Forget this.”
I implore him, “No, we won’t laugh anymore. I want to help. What else?”
He debates answering for a second. “Sometimes I tell a joke.”
Matthew looks perplexed. “A joke?”
“Yeah—you know—‘This guy walks into a bar . . .’ Shit like that.”
I nod slowly. “Right. I can see why you think that would work . . . because every woman wants to screw Bozo the Clown.”
Then we start laughing again.
Warren growls, “Fuck you guys. I’m out of here.” He starts to get up.
“Wait—don’t go. Come on, man, we’re just busting your balls.”
Reluctantly Warren sits back down.
I begin my tutorial. “First mistake—you’re trying too hard. Women can smell desperation like a dog smells fear. And to them, it reeks like shit. You have to be calm. Confident. Like . . . when we were kids, Matthew’s uncle used to take us camping. At the campground there was a lake with all these sunnies swimming around, that all the kids would try to catch. There was this one annoying little prick who wanted to catch the most fish—so he brought a net. He’d slam it into the water over and over, but he never caught any fish. He just scared them away. I, on the other hand, would bring a little bag of bread crumbs. I’d drop in just a few at a time—a small taste. Then I’d sit back and wait. After a minute or two, all the fish would come to me. You see what I’m saying?”
Monkey-boy nods. “Yeah . . .” Then he stops. “No, actually. Not really.”
This is going to be harder than I thought. And the really scary thing? If Kate and I die together in a fiery collision? This dumbass is third in line to raise my kid.
Forget global warming—that’s the thought that keeps me up at night.
“You’re thinking too much.” I take a drink of my beer. “Forget the lines. Forget the goddamn jokes. Women aren’t that complicated. You just have to figure out what they want to hear. Then, tell it to them. You do that, and even the hottest knees will part like the Red Sea.”
He digests my words for a moment. “So I should tell a chick I’ll listen to her demo tape? Maybe get her a recording contract?”
I shake my head. “No. Rule number one—don’t make promises you can’t or have no intention of keeping. Play it straight—anything else is just a scumbag move. And it’s the easiest way to turn a semi-normal chick into a stalker. After the deal gets sealed, if you’re in a jam and need an exit strategy, ask for her phone number—but don’t actually say you’re going to call. It’ll be assumed, but that’s not your problem.” I take another drink of beer. “It’s all about the moment—screw tomorrow. Decipher what she wants, right then and there. Some chicks actually want a dickhead—they get off on being treated like crap.”