The Subtle Art of Getting Fucked: Part II

Oh! My! I didn’t even notice you come in. Let me tell you, once Mr. Burroughs gets his claws into you it becomes quite difficult to unlatch them. Sit down, please! Oh, and you’ve brought your friends? Lovely! I trust you’ve briefed them on our last discussion. What am I saying, of course you did, those bandannas aren’t just for show now, eh…or are they?

Well, as your companion may have informed you, young novitiate, we discussed the finer points of ballin’ when last we met. A well-dressed man’s toolbox, so to speak. Don’t worry, if you need to play catch-up, I’ve archived our last lecture. It’s over there…no, not in the armory you fool, in the Sinclair! Alas, I don’t know how you lot have graduated beyond wiping your asses with your left paw without my help.

Anyway, let us continue where we left off. Now if memory serves me, we were discussing the prospective locale of our little experiment. Now the world being the weird and wonderful little orb that it is, of course a wild time can be had almost anywhere, but with inhabitants so varied, we need to better our chances a bit. After all, better to get loused with a gaggle of debutants than a bunch of frumpy stenographers. So then, let us review our options;

1. The Sky-Blue Collar Bar

-Landscapers, small business owners, enchanted daughters of small business owners, state-college-school-breakers, middle-management women in their late twenties who BFF4L’d their way out of early marriage and a light smattering of minorities (eyed with suspicion and lust by the white women in their late twenties) make this one of the most diverse locales on our possible route of attack. This bar will most likely have dark wooden fixtures, a questionable Irish theme, decent 90′s alternative on the jukebox and Blue Moon on tap (or, at the very least, Sam Summer). If you see flyers for bar-centric party buses that are baseball stadium bound, you’re probably in the right place. This is going to be one of the trickiest to wrangle – not only should you expect to pay at least three dollars for a fucking domestic bottle, but don’t count on talking your way into anything beyond a mid-grade smoke-fest at a condo with a bunch of bros. To top it alloff, most of the girls here either a) make more money than you or b) have boyfriends than can kick your sensitive little Jeff Tweedy ass. As you may already be able to tell, this is going to be one of our most difficult spots to work, but never underestimate The Sky-Blue Collar bar. Once in a blue moon (HAH!) the stars will align into a perfect effigy of your dick and you’ll wake up the next day wondering why you’re in the back seat of a Honda Element or why your tear ducts are bleeding.

-IN THE EVENT THAT YOU ARE IN THE BACKSEAT OF A HONDA ELEMENT OR YOUR TEAR DUCTS ARE BLEEDING:
-Don’t panic. One of two things has happened. Either you’ve stumbled across the one glossy-beautiful graduate student and you’ve swept her off her feet and she’s still reeling from the insane novelty of the shabby-chic world that fucking you has exposed her to, or you ran into her creepy friend that she went to high school with (most likely experimented with hard drugs during a summer in Prague, most likely dark haired and deeply troubled) and the fact that someone of taste has come within ten miles of her insulated little world made her her go-go apeshit all over your dick…after some hard drugs and literary name-dropping, of course.

2. The Leatherface Bar

-The Leatherface will invariably be attached to a restaurant wherein the entrees are likely to start at about fifteen dollars and never get any cheaper. Your biggest competition here is going to be mainly from your occasional guido (easily spotted by their anime hairdos and shockingly well maintained beards), old men (who will all be fabulously wealthy, pink skinned, white haired and boat-shoed) and your standard issue HVAC technician in his early twenties. Your easiest target here is going to be the old men because unless you’ve got cocaine you’ll never be accepted by the guidos and unless you’ve got a truck you’ll never be accepted by the HVAC technicians. In 2008, most of your old men are going to have come of age in the sixties and therefore are the most likely to look kindly on your smarmy little ass. But, even these old men are going to have to be worked right in order to make them at all useful. Take into account what area you’re in – did they most likely come from blue collar backgrounds, or are they all about acquisitions and mergers? Be prepared to bullshit on topics ranging from politics to automobiles and if you’re ever caught just be ready to fly over their heads with something well known enough to actually be known and obscure enough to not be known about by any large number of people. For
example;

Old Man: Which do you prefer, tip-tronic or a straight manual?
You: THE JENSEN-HEALEY IS THE BEST AUTOMOBILE EVER MADE.

Old Man: The state of our American culture is terrible, don’t you agree?
You: FUCK YEAH, LET’S GO PUNCH FAITH MIDDLETON IN THE THROAT.

The goal of all of this bandying around is to earn old trust from these old men. Keep in mind that if they aren’t there drinking with their kids, then they’ve probably disappointed them greatly in some way by turning out to be either a gay or a democrat. You want to be a reminder to them that the youth of today haven’t all been led astray by the Soulja Boys and Hyundai Sonatas of the world. You want to make them wish their son or daughter was like you, a straight shooter who doesn’t take any shit from anyone. Now you’re in – now you’re part of the flock, now you’re the golden child…now you can nail their wives.

If you’ve ridden this out right so far, your target’s wife is probably wasted on several different ‘tinis and has been eyeing you lasciviously for about twenty minutes. Rich women can afford to age slower than the rest of us, so most of the time they’re still pretty hot despite hitting their peak sometime in the early 1990′s. On top of that, they’ve generally got control of their husband’s credit cards…just what you need to pay for that next J&B. If you can bag one of these women, then all the proverbial riches of the orient are yours for that night.

Back at the crib they’ve probably got loads of wine, interestingly textured baguettes, a view of the lake and a vagina that was sopping wet the moment it imagined a dick that could maintain an erection all by itself. If you get that far, don’t even worry – Mrs. Rothschilde can handle things just fine from here, thank you.

We’ll put a hold on our codification for the time being. Now, it’s time for a field-test. Can the wily Dr. Helm charm his way into the realm of statesmen, thinkers and the obscenely wealthy and come away with neither an arrest warrant nor a strong stock portfolio? Find out next time, novitiates, in “Tarnished Pt. 3: Get Weird, Yale!”