I post late and, as usual, blame it on you.

So I watched as a boy pathetically quivered while the girl-this weak chic to whom he had nigga-strutted to lay his silly boy band strategy ergo vibe-played him in front of his own eyes. If she treated him this way in his absence, you’d say kale kale naye he was standing right there, the dumb idiot!

I believe you still don’t know what I’m talking about? I think you share his dumbness. Okay, this is my point. My point is…wait, what am I saying? Oh yeah, I’m here to give you instructions on how to vibe a chic without coming off as a complete idiot.

Moja

Whenever you walk up to her, I need you to keep it at the back of your mind that she knows what you’re there for. I mean why else would you be there, to discuss the romantic ramifications of the government’s takeover of the city? She knows you’ve fancied the way she looks at the moment (let’s not get carried away), she knows you’re going to ask her very personal questions like “what drink do you take?” (How dare you, you insolent bastard! That’s my family you’re talking about here), she knows that at the back of your nasty mind you want to violate her private parts and, as collateral damage, start dating her.

So basically, when you walk up to her, don’t do what she knows you’re going to do. Where the stupid guy who doesn’t know how to vibe would say, “Hi, I’m Erique. Would you mind if I sat next to you?”, look at him miserably, shake your head at this pitiable loser, then walk up to her like the expert-at-these-things that you are and say, “Hi, I’m Rented. No relation. Me and Sudhir are tight. Hush! Just listen. I don’t want to know your name. Not yet. I’m leaving this place at about four a.m and I don’t want to leave you here. So have this-it’s your last drink-and let’s go. I’m going to buy condoms. Be right back.”

Deux

A group of chics bunched up in a club is called a chictet. The one you want from that group is called a chicling. So you’ve spotted this chicling, right? Now this is before step one up there. This is you chilling easy on low low seated somewhere in a corner passionately agreeing to every word Lil Wayne shouts at you. Then you spot her. Normally, what this would mean is you looked up from the Wi-Fi laptop (looked up from my blog, you piece of shit! You offend me) and saw the chic. To know what you have to do to get her, you have to look back down at your laptop and read the next step. Hey! Lookie here, boy.

III

Now you have to walk to her. Don’t swagger like you just aborted a zipped file of antagonistic shit, okay? You have to walk in mp3 format. Walk like every chic wants, nay, needs-yearns, matter of fact-to listen and open up to you. You know, women who actually give an ounce of attention to rich and strong male protagonists like us are very rare and, frankly, God doesn’t make that model anymore (something about ecological factors and saving the environment). So when you stare at this chicling and she stares right back at you even just for a second, bingo, she’s into you. Go do your thang, bro.

You know those scholarly and biblical scripts that say something as if they don’t mean it but they mean it? Like instead of saying “you don’t know the truth” they say “ye know not of the unlies”? That’s mysterious and chics like mystery so when you walk up to her-assuming the first chic up there left and now there’s another victim-you look her in the eyes and say “Woman, I want not to deny myself of entering you”. (By ‘entering’, you mean getting into her heart. So don’t mind that look on her face. Go on. Be strong, bro).

Number foe

What kills us the most is we don’t have faith in ourselves. You park a Toyota Corona driven by a stranger whom you have to remunerate every time you want a ride in your car, you’re drinking a very priceless Pilsner that your pal bought you; basically you look fly and you still think you can’t get you a girl? You disappoint me.

Last one

No posts next week. Tight schedule.Yeah, I know. I feel your pain.

I Miss Rented