Lads, lads, listen up. I'm prepared to share with you, with some considerable measure of personal risk, one of the Great Secrets of wooing women. I have been told by the Sisterhood that sharing such secrets is strictly verboten, but I'm prepared to go out on a limb.
I will state it simply. DO NOT SCREAM AT ME FROM YOUR CAR.
This sounds simple - My God! Yes! The mysteries of the Universe have coalesced! Perhaps women would be more open to my admiration and charming advances if I didn't broadcast my lewd fantasies down Northbourne Avenue - but apparently not. It still happens with a nauseating frequency, to me anyway (of course, I'm nauseated every time it happens, so it mightn't really happen al that often, if you catch my time-relative drift). But no one seems to have told you! You poor little things - I am not berating you, merely sharing with you my perspective. After all, you can't expect anyone to do (or not do) something which hasn't been communicated to them. Nobody here's a mindreader, rite? (Although I have my supicions about TLD - he seems to be pretty in step with my ramblings...)
But back to the matter at hand - it's offensive, it's threatening, and frankly, I'd rather shave my pubic hair off and smoke it than continue a conversation started in this manner. No woman I know thinks, Gosh, what an inventive ice breaker! Perhaps I should start discussing the possiblity of moving in with such a illustrious fellow. Rather, we think you're a tool for doing it. And usually, a tool in a stupid car.
P.S. You'll never win: below is an EXACT recount of a conversation had last weekend.
Him (a young man in a hotted-up Holden with 3 of his mates, sitting at a red light, waiting to cross Northbourne Ave): Hey baby! Looking good! I'll fuck ya tonite!
Her (a Uni student heading home fm a Saturday nite, wearing a modest, below-the-knee dress, crossing Northbourne Ave on foot): Get your hand off it!
Him (now with an even cockier air of posturing, if such a thing is possible): My hands are on the steering wheel! /much laughter from the car/
Her (realising a brilliant straight line when one's offered): Oh, so it's your mate's hand in your pocket, is it?
Him: /thick, 'the Apocalypse is coming!' silence/
Job done. If only he'd read this memo!
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Long Live Bone Crawford
6 hours ago
2 comments:
What? WHAT????? Now you tell us!?!? Sheesh. This was the very reason the car was invented. If it wasn't for the car we'd still be trying the yelling thing from a horse drawn carriage - and that never worked. All the women figured out the horse was the brains of the operation. Sigh...... I can't believe there are tools out there that still do this. Maybe one day...one day...they'll pluck up the courage to talk to a real life woman like a human being and let them stand or fail on their own merits as themselves. That day they will find they truly have a long way to go....and not in the car.
Babes, the horse WAS the brains in the carriage operation - notice how it never yelled, Hey! Nice petticoat! Can I hold your hand tonite?
However, I must add an amendment - if you're a mate who's put up with me whinging about how all you men are cretinous scumbags with no respect of women, who later happens to see me crossing a road, go for it. Nothing's funnier that having someone you know call, I'd crack onto you, but you look like the type who'd whinge about to me later, while you vamp in up on the zebra crossing. Just nothing.
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