Monday, June 2, 2008

You Can't Make This Up

Imagine, for a moment, the following scenario:

You’re a guy hanging out at a jumping Memorial Day cookout. And while there are lots of attractive young women at this party, you have been informed by the hostess that only one or two of them are available. Of these two girls, one is a beautiful blonde, who has a personality to match her looks. Unfortunately, the odds are against you in this scenario; because, while there’s one of her, there are 5 or 6 of you—that is, a young, single man with interest in winning her affections. Never one to back down from a challenge, though, you toss your hat into the ring. You find a moment to grab her attention, and then manage to hold it with interesting conversation, foregoing games of beer pong and exchanging drunken stories with your friends, devoting your sole attention to this angel. She leaves early that night, but not before suggesting that you visit her on the following Friday night at the place where she bartends.

Now, to say you’re excited would be an understatement. Not only is she a great girl who seems to have shown some genuine interest in you, but you have just outmaneuvered every other single guy at the cookout. You’re the winner, the undisputed champ of the party; you have bragging rights over a field of competitors. And over the next few days, your mind occasionally drifts off, daydreaming about the fun you and she can have together, and the looks of jealousy you will be collecting from your boys when they find out that you’re involved with her. You gather some of your friends on the appointed Friday—including her friend “T-Dizzle,” the party hostess who introduced you to each other—and venture out to the object of your desire’s bar. You enter, and see her standing there with a smile, looking every bit as fine as you remembered. You stand behind T-Dizzle as she greets her friend, and await the friendly-yet-encouraging hug that a brand new romantic interest brings. And as T-Dizzle turns to acknowledge you, with anticipation and nerves building in your head, the beautiful blonde vixen looks straight into your eyes and says…

“Nice to meet you.”

Now imagine how many shots and frosty mugs of beer you have to wash down the throats of your boys (one of whom has an internet blog, and is just enough of an a**hole to post your story) just to get them to stop laughing. …And—if there’s any mercy in this world—to forget.

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