So, before the closing from hell, I decided to get a haircut. Not only was it b/c I could tell my boss was giving me the stinkeye, but also because I was reminded of these great lyrics:

Do something about your long, filthy hair
It looks like a rat's nest
Do something about your mullet
Get out the hair clippers, jerk

Get the rat's nest off your head
Get that crazy-ass mother off your skull
Take your ass to the barber shop
Tell the barber that you're sick of looking like an asshole

The mullet is the reason why people hate you
They are sick of looking at your nappy weed-sack
Nobody wants to look at you with that mullet on your head
Why don't you cut that mullet, you numbskull

While I didn't say it to the barber, I did remark to myself that I was tired of looking like an asshole and having people hate me. So, with my freshly cropped hair (its fucking short, and I'm a moron b/c what better time to cut my hair short then when it's freezing), I was feeling all professional. I grabbed a drink after the horrible closing today, and I was reminded about Grayson's super great idea for me to pick up chicks. If I recall correctly, the scheme was to hinge on three elements: 1)wearing a suit and looking important, 2) being able to speak more than one language, and 3)that girls are golddiggers (his words, not mine....girls are wonderful, perfect and never, ever evil or self-serving). The plan would unfold thusly: I would walk in looking bedraggled and tired (not hard). With my professional $5 hair-cut and suit made in a country close to Italy, I would order a scotch and then sigh. Hopefully the bartender would ask, "Tough day?" My response? "Bro, that market is a roller coaster, and I have motion sickness." Of course, there'd have to be a cutie close to the bar to overhear. Then, Grayson's great plan was to have me pretend to answer my phone. I'm not sure if the big boys have cheesy 80's songs as ringtones, but I'm sure Billy Gates has some A-ha on his cell. But, when I pretend to answer my phone, I would then yell something in Chinese for a bit. Of course, the plan wouldn't work if it was a Chinese girl (maybe I'd speak French), but when's the last time I've hit on one? And no, I don't need that book about dating white chicks. Anyways, I'd hang up and remark "Damn Chinese brokers, they're gonna cost me my new wood-panel floors. When I tell them to move 1,000 shares, I mean it!" So, Grayson's logic would be that in one fell swoop, I'd show that I was some high-rolling pimp. Now, I asked him that what happens if this works? My car could MAYBE continue the ruse as I could claim that its my work car so that I don't get the Jaguar dinged up. But, if she were to come over, my place is about as sexy as Janet Reno. No matter how much you dress it up, its still no good. His answer? Just tell her your place is getting refitted with marble tiles and that you are renting your butler's home for now. Damn it, Grayson. You're a freaking genius. This man is going to be a Senator from Alabama one day, and I'll be there shopping pictures of him in dress to the Birmingham News. And for those that are wondering? No, I didn't try the plan. But if I get drunk and try to use it on one of y'all ladies, try to act surprised and let me down gently.

Posted by Victor on Thursday, December 08, 2005 at 10:50 PM | Permalink