I’m driving down a busy street in my electric Chevy Volt (yes, an admitted nominee for repellent). While stopped at a light, a man pulls up next to me in the bike lane. He’s wearing pajama pants tucked into white, mid-calf tube socks, an embroidered backpack, and a silly biker helmet. This was the trifecta, ensuring he will not be spreading his genes anytime soon.
As much as I’d love to be a pussy magnet, I admit to doing things that don’t serve my desires. A noteworthy encroachment is use of my mobile phone while in the sauna—third favorite place to be behind Positano, Italy and bed. The problem isn’t necessarily the phone use. We all stare at the fuckers all day long. It’s that I’m playing Candy Crush, and I’m at level 809, which means I have wasted around two years of my life popping candy bubbles.
I’ve been called out on it. My reason is that it distracts me from the intense heat and scent of ball sweat. Now, if I were taking selfies in the sauna, that would be a more effective repellant.
Women still hate farting, burping, and spitting. I can’t see those falling of the list anytime soon. Well, spitting might, based on porn I’ve seen recently. Porn is reality, no?
Bar mating games are amusing to me. I usually order an 805 beer and stare at the TV. Around me, boys peacock for attention. One yesterday (sure, he was half my age, but still should know better at age 27) wore a wife beater exposing his tatted pencil-thin arms. Offensive, but not as much as his reverse bob hair-don’t. “Only cute on a cat, son.”
Ladies are quite observant, fellas. If they see you prance around the pub hitting on every unoccupied princess, you had better not approach them. You’ve been labelled as piglet, and no lady wants to be your third-teenth choice, even if you have abs.
Now that football season is here again, another sure way to kick mating options to the curb is to scream at the TV, or discuss your Fantasy Football prowess where they can hear it. In fact, wearing your favorite player’s jersey has also become passé. However, providing your jersey to your sleepover girl-toy is a great idea. Problem is you need to keep a stock of your rival’s jerseys. I once doggie-styled Troy Aikman. The clouds parted.
Being mean to bartenders and servers is still a surefire way to brick up that baby oven. In fact, don’t complain about anything. It reminds ladies of that whiny little nephew who cries because he wants Oreos for dinner.
Fuck. I want Oreos for dinner, too. Little shit has the right idea. God damn it! Now I’m starved. Jesus. Double Stuff dunked in milk. I could stack them into a quad-stuffed delight. Fuck. Vagina can wait. Be right back.
Facebook posts can be quite repellious. (Yay, new word. Take note, Wiki.) Cute ones that attract vag include gourmet food, wine, parents, children, and pets. Horrible ones that distract vag and get you blocked (from cock too) include political rants, shirtless selfies (unless you’re Phelps, perhaps), and more than ten posts in a day.
Take note, my brothers. Or, keep doing your thing, and leave more lady parts behind for others.
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