I have used some interesting and unconventional pick up methods that have proven me successful, so I thought I’d share them with you, in case you might want to use them.
- A nice gentleman at a country bar asked for my phone number. I said no, but told him he could meet me back by the bathroom in five minutes. After making out with him, I slid my number into his pocket… yeah he called later.
- At one of my house parties, I told my man-friend at the time that my heated blanket was warming and he should come check it out.
- I put whip cream on my nipples, took a picture on my phone, attached the picture to a text message and said “come fuck me.”
- I put on my little red slip, stood in the doorway of my room and gave the beckoning head and finger nod.
- I did a keg stand in a mini skirt and fairy wings and got the man who was holding my legs to make out with me post-keg stand.
- We had a few friends over for drinking games one night, so I decided to sport my lace tank top showing off the golden orbs. I answered the door wearing this shirt to surprise guests. It became known as the answering the door shirt. And got me some new “friends.”
- An acquaintance of mine stuck his tongue out at me and I just put my mouth over it. Classy.
- After many-a-shot of tequila I told my drinking partner he could put his bike in my truck… apparently he liked that idea.
- Ah yes and this is a classic one, I was playing foosball with two guys and whoever won was going to get the privilege of making out with me. I didn’t take into consideration what would happen if I won. Somehow I ended up making out with both the winner and loser.
- The ever so elegant one, I was making out with one guy and turning around and making out with a different guy. I did this continuously while a third guy was watching, then… I said hey, you want some of this?I made out with him later.
So they aren’t the most sophisticated ways to attract members of the opposite sex, but at least I didn’t pull my nipple out in front of the whole bar. Oh, wait…
-Alexis Patron
I’m going to need barrels of gin to get me through the next couple of weeks. Barrels.
Generally, my job is pretty stress free. It’s brainless. A monkey could do it. I could do it while slam hammered and probably be more productive than sober. But every once in a while, my boss gives me an assignment that needs to be finished quickly. This would be no problem if our system worked properly, if our bosses knew how to communicate effectively, or if anyone at all was driving this bus instead of being asleep at the wheel everyday.
I’m a little bitter right now, because we were just moved into this ass-tiny-fishbowl room that has more people. Evidently, more people in a smaller room with boxes is a good idea around here. I’m sandwiched between a lovely girl from my team and a quiet man who smells. It’s not a BO smell, or even that smell you get after having crazy sex all night long without showering. I can’t put my finger on it, but every fucking time this guy moves it wafts in my direction and makes me want to blow my brains out a little bit.
Fuck me, he just moved again.
Despite the fact that this guy smells like hot ass in August and I can see every single pore on the girl across from me, this actually isn’t the worst work situation I’ve found myself in. My first job, wow. Just, wow. I’m thankful for it because it paid the tabs I ran up during my alcoholic phase and without it I would have never met Alexis, but holy shit it doubled as an introduction to fucking batshit crazy people.
One woman “worked” there. By “worked” I mean she ordered shoes online, had phone sex with her fiance, picked fights with coworkers, degraded the masses, rarely showed up on time, left early, yelled at customers and plotted ways to smuggle her fiance into the country. That’s a normal work day for most people, right? Well her Dad just happened to fund the company and own half of a major corporation, so she got away with everything for a while.
She was rich and ignorant, which combined is one of my biggest pet peeves. If Satan and Dick Cheney had a baby with a trust fund, it literally would have been her.
doctors removed the horns and tail moments after birth.
I didn’t approve of anything that came out of her mouth, but I found it easy to reply to everything she said with an awkward “haha, yeah…” after she made it clear she could have me fired for no reason.
What’s that? Those Gucci shoes are inexpensive and two pairs are obviously better than one? Haha, yeah….
Oh really? I’m a Nazi because I watched a documentary on World War II last night on the History Channel? Haha, yeah…
You don’t say! Our “brown” and “dyke” coworkers are annoying? Haha, yeah…
What do you do in this situation? Fresh out of college, never had a “real world” job before. I was a baby, a baby with a pretty big alcohol problem, but a baby in the eyes of the world nonetheless.
I like to think that today if I saw her in the street I would tell her she’s a horrible excuse for a human and her million-dollar bank account is a flawless example of exactly what is wrong with our society, but at the time I hadn’t come to the conclusion that topless dancing might not be the worst source of income. I needed the job.
Eventually, she even managed to cross the air-thin lines of ethics our office apparently had when she called from a town nestled on the boarder of Texas and Mexico and asked us to Western Union her a generous sum of money to bribe a boarder guard.
Racsism, sexism, inappropriate sexual conversation, alcohol breaks? Fine. But don’t you dare try to get away with bribery. That, sir, is just offensive.
-Anastasia Beam
Alexis drank a boatload last night and made various bad decisions. I think she’s longing for the days when her biggest concern was if she should wear the purple or zebra print slap bracelet.
Some of my favorite things about childhood: Chuck E. Cheese, Big Wheels, nap time, TGIF, the BeDazzler and Where The Wild Things Are. Oh and look at that! They made a movie of Where The Wild Things Are (I’m currently working on a BeDazzler meets the Big Wheel treatment, so look for that in theaters soon).
As Rob Corddry said, if this doesn’t give you the chills you are dead inside.
Happy Friday
-Anastasia and Alexis
Filed under: this and that | Tags: a-rod, anastasia, baseball, baseball players, red sox
I sure am! MLB’s opening day is right around the corner and I could not be more fucking pumped. This was an interesting off season. Alex Rodriguez finally confirmed what I have known for years, and as a die hard Boston Red Sox fan living in NYC, it felt so, so good.
Yeah, he paid for sex. I get it for free all the time.
And, oh yeah, he did a shit ton of steroids too. Who knew?
At the beginning of each baseball season, I am reminded of an incident that happened a couple years ago. Ladies, want to know a real quick and easy way to pick a fight with your boyfriend? Try sitting on a professional baseball player’s lap, in his hotel room, before stealing his alcohol and then lie about the whole thing via text message. Oh yeah, and then make sure to remember every bad thing your boyfriend has ever done and use these tidbits against him to justify your drunken antics. And then drive home, mildly intoxicated (I really do frown upon this) and pass a motorcade of police cars at two in the morning.
This story reared its ugly little head recently when I got a text from an unfamiliar number. I’ve been pretty relaxed with saving numbers from dudes at the bar, so I wasn’t too shocked to see a random “hey baby” text.
Turns out it was the baseball player I met after I graduated college. We went to a ballgame one night, and after about six beers I dragged a few of my lady friends to the bullpen to collect baseballs. Usually the relief pitchers are willing to give them up if you flash a little cleave.
Flashing the cleave that night not only got us baseballs and autographs, but also phone numbers and directions to the player’s hotel room as well. But I wasn’t really convinced. It seemed like an awful lot of work to get back to a minor leaguer’s hotel room, and my friends and I were perfectly fine with hitting a local bar instead.
Then one smug bastard dropped a line he’s probably used a billion times: “Yeah, my brother plays for the Boston Red Sox”
Come again? Your brother plays for the Boston Red Sox?
He’s talking to the drunk girl who is wearing a low cut Red Sox shirt, and casually dropped that into conversation? Obviously it worked, because before we knew it we were being showered with alcohol at the hotel bar.
At this point, I knew I probably shouldn’t have been drinking with a sleazy baseball player in a hotel bar, but I figured boyfriend wouldn’t mind because of the Sox affiliation. I was safe with my friends, and it wasn’t like we were in his private suite.
Uh, actually, fifteen minutes later, he invited us to go upstairs and order food. We couldn’t decline his invitation, drunk girls need to eat too! One of his other sleazeball teammates joined us in the suite.
His friend was such a cocky douche. He acted like he threw a no hitter in a World Series clinching game. Reality check: He was playing minor league baseball for the Devil Rays and minor league baseball for the Rays in 2007 was hardly a step above your high school’s varsity team.
This creeper decided that 1 am was a perfect time to go through his mail and lackadaisically dropped his pay check on the table in front of us. A solid minute and a half passed before he frantically reached for the paycheck and screamed “Whoops! Don’t look at that you guys!”
As if these guys hadn’t acted shady enough, in unison they pulled out their cell phones. “Who are you calling?” I asked the one. He grabbed me, turned me around, sat me down on his lap and responded with “I want to show you something.”
He flipped open his cell phone to show me various dick pictures of himself. That’s the perfect way to seduce a girl: cell phone dick pictures.
The look of sheer terror on my face was unmistakable. My friends and I knew it was time to make our exit. They offered to get us hotel rooms for the night, but we politely declined. Then, apparently as a parting gift, they gave us a giant bottle of Grey Goose, so long as we promised to come back.
We took the bottle and fled.
The fight that ensued when I told boyfriend I had been in their hotel room was pretty ugly and it seemed like no amount of next-day “baby, I’m so sorry,” apologies worked.
As for the player’s most recent text, he attempted to get me to send him some tit pictures.
Yeah right, buddy. Call me when you make the majors.
-Anastasia Beam
Oh yeah, any baseball fans out there, have fun guessing which player most of this is about. It should be pretty obvious.
Everyone knows what assuming does. Well what happens when you have an overzealous assumer on your hands? You wind up with a naked man in your bed or with a stranger who you made out with once standing at your front door, suitcase in hand. Never a good time. It’s no fun walking into your bedroom and seeing a naked man laying in your bed while your date waits in the living room.
Let me back track. I was on a nice double date with a very cute guy. We came back to my apartment where my roommates were having a party and decided to share a post-date-cuddle on the couch. A former hook up of mine called to inform me he’d be stopping by. Now, I assumed that meant he was coming over for my roommates’ party, so I said it was cool.
His assumption: sex.
Mr. Assumer arrives and immediately bee lines for my bedroom. I look at my date and say… “hmm, I don’t know what that is about, let me see what he wants.” and walked in on a sprawled-out skinny naked man just chilling on my purple blanket.
Shit.
I told my date that my friend was having a crisis and needed my help. I told my naked friend to put his pants on because he wasn’t getting none of this tonight.
Yeah, he made an ass out of me and him.
So that brings me to the other overzealous assumer who I met while visiting my friend.
He is coming to visit. Mind you, I have not spoken to this practical stranger since I randomly made out with him whilst drinking. So now he is coming to visit because he thinks we are in a relationship.
Yeah, I’m confused too.
The text: “Hey you. Might be able to make it up next weekend. Does Saturday night work?”
Uhhh, I haven’t heard from him since he had his tongue down my throat. Does that mean he thinks he is staying with me? I’m just confused as to how the lines of communication got so fucked up to the point that he assumes he can just come visit me because I let him kiss me. Doesn’t he know that as long as you have lips I’ll let you kiss me?
It’s just very hard for me to understand the overzealous assumer. Most of the time I wind up in these “relationships” that I have no idea where the stemmed from… people just have got to start understanding that I’d make the worst girlfriend ever. I’ll write a list some day of the reasons why I just wouldn’t be good at it, but until then, I just hope Mr. Stranger doesn’t wind up at my doorstep.
Dear Alexis,
I am going to make a few promises to you in a moment. Hold please, I have to go get another bowl of cereal. Okay, I’m back.
That was my second bowl of Peanut Butter Crunch. I think the first bowl produced a serious injury to the roof of my mouth. That cereal is like eating delicious peanut buttery shards of metal. I ate so much tonight. Two bowls of cereal isn’t that big of a deal. However, the two bags of popcorn, hummus wrap, and half a box of Andes candies really did some damage to my quest for Gwen Stefani abs.
If it wasn’t painfully obvious, I finished off that weed with a friend of mine tonight. Whoops. But I hardly enjoyed the first tokes, as I was convinced that my closeted-family-man landlord was about to knock down my door to complain about the narcotics in his best 7th grade drama-club tone. I eventually settled down and watched Will Ferrell’s “You’re Welcome America.”
I can’t quite figure out if the writers devoted their funniest quips to the first half of the show or if my high started to wear off. I enjoyed it nonetheless.
So in fairness to me, despite the fact that I smoked a giant bowl of weed on a Sunday night, I didn’t have an unproductive weekend. On the contrary, I would consider this weekend quite a success: I went to the gym twice, smiled at a few different guys, did some shopping, worked a little overtime, and spent some quality time with friends.
It was a pretty good weekend regardless of the fact that I overheard a friend telling someone he was going to set me up on a date because I “needed it more than anyone else.”
Do you remember when I sat you down last year and told you in typical asshole fashion that you were a waste case? I’m having that conversation with myself right now, only this time it’s happening in a letter form directed to you. I’m kind of a waste case, albeit a lovable and adorable waste case.
In an effort to improve said condition, I’m going to make you a few realistic promises (remember that Lent thing? Ha, we both knew that was never happening). Here we go…
- I’m only drinking twice a week from now on.
- I’m still not going to drink any beer.
- I’m going to finish off the rest of the weed I have (on a weekend) and then I’m not going to buy anymore. Paranoia and the fifteen pounds I’m heading to gain from the use of recreational marijuana outweigh the benefit of feelings of temporary weightlessness and bliss.
- Remember that food diary my personal trainer told me to keep? Remember the same food diary I kept for two weeks and then stopped? I’m going to do it regularly and I challenge you to pop-quiz me on that.
- Ugh, I guess I’ll try to be a little nicer to you as well. Seriously, I won’t tease you about the inevitability of you dancing naked for money one day, or the fact that you’re bound to be a horrible wife. Seriously, I won’t tell you about the affair I’m plotting with your father or brother or, if I play my cards right, the two of them.
I need to get my shit together and I think tomorrow is the perfect day to do so.
Your business partner,
-Anastasia Beam
Filed under: this and that
Ugh, I am soooo late for work and Alexis is still out cold, and for those reasons we decided to take today off. Don’t worry, we’ll be back tomorrow.
Time to put down that bottle of Patron.
After mastering the hilariously overplayed dick-in-a-box routine, it appears Justin Timberlake is now taking on the
lucrative business of becoming a master distiller.
As if we really need another reason to take our pants off for Justin.
Nope, he doesn't need the tequila to get us naked.
On a different note, we had a lousy week. Would you believe that some people out there just don’t get a kick out of debauchery and don’t find our blog particularly amusing?
We know. We were shocked, too. Srsly.
But we have been getting a tiny bit of attention on Facebook lately, so if you want to help cheer us up, feel free to post the blog on your facebook account. We don’t want your drunken, slutty friends to miss out on the fun either, do we?
Happy Friday. Drink one or seven for us this weekend.
-Anastasia and Alexis
I just got called out. Three months of game playing and trying to scare Earnest off and he finally called me out. He dropped the question: “so where is this going.” I thought I had been clear, but I guess I was not.
The conversation started out decently, until he said he had a question for me. Of course I knew what this question was going to be, so I felt it’d be appropriate to ask him to write it in a letter instead. I respond better to letters than I do confrontation.
Well that didn’t work. He asked it anyways.
“I feel as if for the last three months we’ve been dancing around this flirtation and I wanted to make sure I was correct in the signals I was getting from you.”
Shit. I need to fix my signals.
I thought for sure I had made myself clear when I told him I hated commitment, I’ve cheated on boyfriends before, I was a basket case of crazy, and plan on moving to Greece and taking Greek lovers…
I mean COME ON!
This conversation about “what we are doing” went on for about an hour and a half, of which I spent most of it pacing around my apartment wondering why the fuck I didn’t have any booze in my house in this desperate time of need. Seriously, it is always important to keep a bottle of tequila or wine on hand for situations such as these.
He just went on and on about how there is some force in the universe drawing him to me and I have some unforeseen magnet that pulls him in and he can’t quite figure it out.
“Yeah I do have to admit you are a little crazy, but it is something about your little quirks, there is this attraction that I can’t quite explain but I just want to know more about you,” Earnest said.
In my babbling-freak-out-of-a response, I was about to use the ol’ fake lesbian excuse to ditch him, but ended up telling him I probably will cheat on him. Maybe commitment is a bad idea.
His response: I can’t guarantee I won’t do the same.
Bullshit; he’s head over heels. I needed to step it up. I told him I didn’t want to hurt him but it was likely, and proceeded to give him every detail on my last sexcapade. He was like a fucking boulder, not moving for shit. I can’t scare this cat away with a freaking bulldog.
He told me that he wasn’t asking me to go steady or anything, just wanted to make sure that we were moving forward and he will be patient with me. I don’t know what to do now. He’s so sweet and I enjoy hanging out with him, but I’m just not that interested in the commitment deal. So I tried to be blunt. He asked me to a play on Friday and I said no because I didn’t want to have to try and come up with an excuse later in the week.
After a painfully long conversation and leaving a pattern in my carpet from where I walked around and around, I had to go find some fucking booze before the store closed.
Cheers!
-Alexis Patron
Filed under: birds and bees, this and that | Tags: anastasia, dirty talking, england, humor, kate winslet, sex
I met, made out with, and gave my phone number to an Englishman a few weeks back ; ergo we are now in a relationship, according to him. Since returning to England he has made every effort to stay in touch: texts, email, gchat, phone, Morse code. I anticipate a messenger pigeon is on the way.
Our “relationship” could be quite romantic if he kept it to small talk and casual get-to-know-you conversation (and if his face wasn’t totally busted.) But he opted for dirty talk.
He has completely ruined dirty talking for me.
I fucking love dirty talking. Suffer through a long distance relationship and you’ll be a pro by the end of it. It just comes with the territory.
But I never asked for it with this guy. You make out with one Englishman while you’re bombed and apparently you signed up for weeks of absolutely pathetic dirty talk via the internet. Who would have known?
Since I am enduring this to ensure a nearly-free trip to London, I’ve noticed a few patterns in his technique, patterns that I think need serious improvement. His slang terms make no sense and lack sexy rhythm. A solid twenty minutes is needed to decipher his speech, and often times I find myself referencing google or, believe it or not, the dictionary. Nothing gets me in the mood like having to flip through a dictionary to decode “sexy” talk.
Take your seats my friends. Anastasia’s lesson on English “dirty” talking is about to begin:
- Fanny [fan-ee]: If you thought your fanny is what you fall on after 12 shots of 151, you’d be wrong. A fanny is actually English slang for pussy.
Example of English dirty talking: I will plow your fanny with my member after tea and crumpets.
The American (and correct) way: Don’t leave your fanny pack at the park! - Blowy [bloh-ee]: Not to be confused with windy, chilly, or easily blown about; a blow is slang for an English blowjob. Because nothing is sexier than telling the dude you just met at the bar that you want to give him a wet, sloppy “blowy.”
Example of English dirty talking: You’ve been a naughty trollop and you’ll perform a blowy on me as castigation.
American (and correct) way: The flimsy curtains were made of blowy material. - Fit [fit]: Adapted? Suited? Appropriate? Proper, becoming, qualified, or confident? Oh, no. Your new definition of the word fit is more closely related to someone who is “so fuckin’ smokin’ hot.”
Example of English dirty talking: Fuck me! You’re fit! (I’m not making this one up. He actually said this to me).
American (and correct) way: My personal trainer is very fit and hopefully she will kick my ass a few more times and I will look like her. - Ride the Merry-go-Round: This one blew my mind the most. Straight up: Euphemism for fucking the shit out of someone.
Example of English dirty talking: I’d love a jaunt on the merry-go-round with the Queen Mum!
American (and correct) way: Hold your sister’s hand while you take her on the merry-go-round! - Freepenny bits: I can’t come up with something witty for this because no one in their right American mind would ever even utter this phrase in public, let alone in the bedroom. A lesson to any male readers out there: never, ever, ever dub a female’s lady parts her “freepenny bits” without expecting her to think you are a complete creeper.
