Two gentlemen whose consistent popularity with women will always be a mystery to me.
1. The meth-head that sells me cigarettes at the tobaconist where, without fail, MTV "Cribs" is always playing on the wall mounted, rotary-dial television. I suppose "Cribs" is the finishing acadame that taught him that nothing says class like a t-shirt with Lil' John airbrushed, in rather stunningly life-like detail, on the front... complete with real faux-gold teeth 'bedazzled' onto John's perfectly replicated shit-eating-grin.
2. Any male who has frosting incorporated into their over-gelled, pseudo flat-top. The same 'dude' whose coming is heralded by the acrid stench of a freshly applied 'TAG body shot,' and that unmistakable thick, graceless, plodding step that bespeaks the carriage of the unbearable weight of subconsciously knowing that you have never had, nor will you ever have, a personality. A hard truth, kept barely at bay by the combination of: shopping for cloths that take surf/skateboard logos and cleverly twist them into something vaguely Jesus themed, and mentally punishing yourself for screwing, even though the same deity promoted on your zipper hoody hates you for it.
Take my advice ladies: it is the skinny, RPG playing, geek that will love you with all the vigor and appreciation of a fifteen year-old virgin, but with the added bonus of a sexual vocabulary pregnant with the years of internet pornography that a teenager has yet to experience.
Plus, I've got like, four dollars left on my laundry card, so if you spend the night I can totally wash your cloths for you in the morning.
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