Friday, September 10, 2010

Andy Itwaru on Meeting Girls

The problem with meeting girls is actually going out to meet them. If a beautiful woman were to stroll into my apartment, walk into my room, and offer to have sex with me, I’m almost certain I could figure out a way to seduce her. Unfortunately life is not a soft-core porn film, a lesson I learned harshly during my brief stint as a pizza delivery boy. Sure there were sexual advances, but they came from my co-worker in the kitchen. One day after work, he offered me a ride. I was going to accept, but he told me I had to walk home with him before he would give it to me. For the record nothing ended up happening, I naively asked the guy if I could ride shotgun, and he began to violently bawl. Apparently that’s how his last partner died. 

My big problem with meeting girls usually has nothing to do with the girls themselves, I’m more concerned with the unnecessary peripheral nuisances that come with meeting women. 

The bane of my existence is the platonic male friend. You all know the type I’m talking about. The kind of guy a hot girl keeps around, boosting her self esteem. He’s in love with her and she is fully aware. He’s as dependant on her attention as a wounded puppy, only less likely to engage in any sort of intercourse. This guy acts as a head cheerleader for his target of affection. Constantly on the other end of his cell phone receiver, his ear tinted green from the overexposure to radiation, the P.M.F (‘Platonic male friend’ why did I abbreviate that last bit if I was just going to write it out in full later? Not to mention the previous sentence! Dumb!) listens intently while his master rattles on endlessly about the troubles between her and her current beau. The boyfriend bashing brings an almost orgasmic twitch to the P.M.F who would like nothing better than to usurp the boyfriend’s position, taking his rightful place next to the object of his intense desires. 

To the P.M.F boyfriend bashing sounds like a symphony of kittens giggling. However, the prospect of a new dude in his dreamgirls life must sound like an old Korean woman dragging her talon like fingernails across an old chalkboard while singing ‘hollaback girl’ in an off-key falsetto. P.M.F was the guy who’d pick out the lingerie for her boyfriend to rip off of her later. P.M.F was the guy who had awkward conversations with her parents while she was off somewhere sexting a guy she met at the GAP. P.M.F had put his work in, and finally got rid of that bum who stood between him and the girl he’d worked so hard to be with… only to have his spot stolen by the most deplorable and sick type of creature imaginable- the stand up comedian. When P.M.F speaks to his lady on the phone, her words pierce like daggers: ‘He’s so funny!’ ‘…lightening fast wit’, ‘disturbingly pretty for a man!’ (Editors note: I’m not sure if these were the actual words spoken, however I assume most people say these things about me). 
Over the phone the P.M.F congratulates his girl on finding such a nice guy, and cautiously advises her to take things slowly. In his mind P.M.F is unshakably aware that this supposed ‘comedian’ is not only not funny, but probably no where near as funny as he is. No matter what this comedian said to his beloved, no one could make her laugh as hard as he did. One time he was able to make her giggle, chuckle and guffaw (in that order) at the mere mention of them going out on a date. Surely this comedian cannot match his razor sharp wit!

So I’m seeing this girl for a while, and she keeps telling me I need to meet her friend because I’ll ‘like him’. For the record, telling me that I’ll ‘like’ someone usually has the opposite effect, as my standards have now been set unreachably high. Unless this fellow comes to dinner with Megan Fox’s face and a functioning vagina I doubt we’ll get along. During our meeting I’m shut out of the conversation like a pee-wee hockey player trying to score on an angry Russian goal tender. The most I could contribute all night was saying ‘-Bee!’ and that was only after P.M.F gave me the ultimatum to A: Deal with the fact the lady wanted to speak with him or B: fuck off. As I got up and walked out of the restaurant, the girl he was in love with for years, the same girl I’d been irritated with for days, ran out to catch me. Leaving our poor P.M.F alone in the restaurant, his only company a half eaten egg roll, and his blackberry, carefully placed on the table near his right hand, just in case he’s needed. 

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