You know, he's the guy who can snare the ladies. Some loser teaching other losers how to appropriately approach some tender-little-shaver in some hipster beer parlor. The night ending with you eventually staggering up the road with her, to your sparsely furnished stink-chamber of an apartment to give her the old "Brown Madam." "Home sweet Hell," you'll say as you dead-bolt the door and accidentally hit your forehead on the door knob as you take off your Spalding's. This is the guy that understands the ladies. This is the dick-head who can identify the needs and moods of all the ladies, and if you listen to his Abigail Van Buren-like sage wisdom you'll never hear the phrase, "You smell like poop," again. This line will be spoken of course, by a visibly-uncomfortable-previously-laughing-just-a-minute-ago-girl-but-now-feeling-nauseated-and-frightened-and-wanting-to-immediately-leave-and-move-out-of-town-never-to-return-from-the...
(now known as The Riverside Times)