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Thursday, 30 July 2009

image for How Real Men Score With Fake Women A lonely broad sitting by herself at the Saturday night dance over at the American Legion hall

The secrets revealed
By Fr. Francois Dubois, S.J.



I know what you must be thinking: would a Roman Catholic priest know how to score with chicks-after all, chicks aren't altar boys, now, are they? Well, understand this: priests are real men; just like most of you guys are who read this magazine.

I see a whole lot of groovy chicks on Saturday nights and Sunday mornings. I have a little bit of free time, after services. And I get really tired of a steady diet of altar boys, let me tell you! So, when the urge to convene my sexual congress gets the better of me, off comes the Roman collar, and on goes the paisley, polyester disco shirt over my favorite, lime green, double knit leisure suit. And, after a dash of lemming musk cologne, I'm off to fight in the battle of the sexes.

In any battle, it is best to be well prepared for the fight, well armed, shall we say. The battle for sexual conquest is no different than any other; the number one rule for victory has always been: know your enemy. Let us look closely at this most important of all rules for the successful nookie hunter and gatherer.

Forget about scoring with attractive, well adjusted, upwardly mobile, productive women. Those twits will put out only for attractive, equally well adjusted, productive men, with high paying jobs, fancy cars, clothes and shit loads of cash to spend on them. Real men, guys like you and me, we haven't a chance of getting into those tight assed bitches. Why waste our time trying to score with them when there are literally millions of mindless, silly twats out there who will fall for any line-and I mean any line! We guys have only so much time away from our wives-or altar boys. We must use that time to our advantage. So, I say, "Go for the ho's!"

Forget about scoring with flight attendants or registered nurses; they have dates, and you aren't in their leagues, even if you do bowl with them. These women go to trendy bars and fancy, swanky restaurants where ties and silk shirts, socks and shoes are required, even for entering the places. Whether you travel as a member of a pussy posse, or as a lone wolf, it is incumbent upon you to go where the ho's goes, so to speak.

Where do the ho's goes? You can always find a willing (and most likely drunk) chick-a-dee at the Saturday night dance over at the American Legion hall. You're not a veteran? That is no problem; just sneak in and tell the bar tender you're visiting "John," or "Eddie Ray." Tell her you served in "the Nam" with the guy. You'll be welcomed inside and, if you're really lucky, may even get your first drink for free! Once past the door, you're in like Flynn; start trolling immediately.

Like any predator out on the veldt, look for a woman who seems to be alone, off to herself. Slowly move toward her. When you make eye contact, look completely shocked. Say, "Are you made of sugar or honey, darling, cuz you are eye candy!" Now, one of two things will happen. The chick, if she is even more desperate for male contact than you are for female contact, will stay put and might act shy-maybe act offended; but she won't run away. Or, she will slap you silly and beat feet away from you. Either way, you have won round one. If she stays, you have overcome the biggest hurdle in the race for her "finish line." If she smacks the shit out of you and leaves, well, you needn't waste all night wooing her, and buying drinks for her, only to watch her leave with some faggy prick in a camouflaged jacket.

Let's move on. The woman hasn't run off, so it is time to take a really close look at her. She's not the prettiest gal in the room? Well, son, you ain't no prize either; quit your whining. It is important to figure out just how drunk she already is; ask her to dance with you. If she says, "But the band isn't playing any music right now," tell her, "Your eyes are making all the music I need for my soul to dance," or some such shit. Again, two things might happen; one, she might look at you out of her one good eye and say, "Fuck off, asshole." The second thing she can do is stay put. Either way, you win again: if she leaves, you've not wasted your breath, limited funds, or even more limited time. If she stays put, she's either deaf, too drunk to run, or better still, doesn't speak English, doesn't care if you are a dork because she IS desperate, and you ARE going to score.

Forget dancing! Ask her to go outside with you "to look at the stars," which like her teeth, come out at night. She will or she won't. If she does, that is progress. If she demurs, fuck her; find another chick. Now, if she consents to go outside with you, put your arm around her waist and draw her close. Once you are outside with her, kiss her, gently. When you break off the kiss, look deeply into her one good eye and ask her, "Does the rest of you taste as good as your mouth?" She will either say, "Why don't we find out;" or she might say, "Wouldn't you like to know?" Whatever the fuck she says, you say, "Yes. Yes, I must know.

O.K. You don't have a car because (A) you don't have a job, or (B) you wrecked it, or (C) your wife has it and wouldn't let you have it. No worries, lad, ask her where she is parked. If she points anywhere within walking distance, guide her that way. If she says, "I didn't drive," tell her, "Look, trees, let's walk over to them." If she consents (there is that word "consent[s]" again), walk her to the car or to the trees.

If she gets into a car with you, or walks into the woods with you, do two things before you go any further. Number One, remove the pre-printed consent to have sexual intercourse form from the inside pocket of your leisure suit. And a pen, dumbass, she can't sign the consent form without a pen. Have her sign it. Number two, ask her if she brought a condom. If she says "Yes," use it. If she says "No," forget screwing her and go straight for a blow job. If she doesn't CONSENT to give you head, ask for a hand job. If she says something like, "I thought you wanted to know how the rest of ME tasted," just tell her, "I do, baby. I do!" Then whip out your four-inches and say, "Baby, look at my eight-inch trouser trout. It wants to swim up your stream."

You'll either get lucky, or you won't.

In the next installment of my series, we will discuss ridding oneself of pediculosis pubis, or crab lice. Until then, just remember, most of the gals that would fuck you are as much of losers as are you.

There is someone for everyone, and if you-or she-is drunk enough, both of you will be fucked!

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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