When Has It Ever Worked?

"Hey baby, why you lookin' so mean?"

Muthafuckas make me laugh. Game is a lost art. I used to have it. I haven't had it in a minute or two. I don't need it now, but damn, it would be nice to have.

"You lookin' good girl!"

I'll bet she is, fella. I'll bet she is. But is yelling that as she strides purposefully with her 5 friends to get in line for this party gonna get her to stop? Nope. Next time try laying a 10 dollar bill in the street and saying "Miss, you dropped this!"

My boy Three told me something a long time ago that makes all the sense in the world. I don't know if it really works, because I'd only tried it with female friends and not "prospects". He said "Compliment a woman the way another woman would and she'll be more responsive." He didn't say it quite like that, because Three is kinda illiterate, but you get the idea. "I like your shoes." "I like that color on you." Instead of "DAMN, you got a big ole ass!", which was my preferred expression. I really gotta ask Three if his bullshit method ever worked.

"Ay, sweetheart, lemme holla at you a minute."

Probably the most subtle shit I've heard today. It's not overly aggressive but it's still pretty ignorant. If she stops, you got an even shot. If not? Sucks to be you. I say work on your shit a little more and come back a little harder than that.

My shit was always situational. I had these scenarios worked out for all these different situations. If she's standing here, then I'll comment on that. If she's doing that, I'll do this and then we'll cross paths. It's laughable that shit that worked well.

To the cats that still think this shit is fun, I salute you. But you gotta fuckin' do better than this!

Peace,
KZ

Things To Know

Off topic: When will muthafuckas stop shoving unsheathed fat cock up in those fertile Spears girls? Gotdamn! I guess that advanced screening of "Juno" probably won't be so funny now.

Anyway, I'm here to talk about lessons, learned and forgotten. This post is for my friends, the Africans who still wanna keep playing this game, which has diminishing returns once you pass 31.

• The factor is 3/2. When a woman under thirty tells you how many dudes she's fucked, multiply that shit by 3/2. That's the real number. For women over thirty, the factor is 5/3.
  
• How ever many dudes a chick is involved with at the time you meet her, she is fucking one additional guy. He "doesn't count". They're not serious and they get together from time to time. If she claims not seeing anyone, she's fucking one dude undercover.
• Women are groupies by nature, not nurture. Dick riding is part and parcel of who they are. Look at the difference between strip clubs for men and for women. That tells the whole story. They go to malls and scream during a book signing by Tyson Beckford. They faint when they see Idris Elba at the club. If you don't recognize that these men are to be lionized for their good looks, you are a hater. Don't try to change it, it's hopeless. Hater!
  
• No, the talking won't stop. It won't slow down, nor will the topics change.
  
• In no way is actual affection to be substituted for expensive gifts. What are you, a fucking hippie?
• That raw assed sexuality that reeled you in? Prepare to see that shit only on the most special of occasions. You better start celebrating all those "bank holidays" and shit.
• Regular bedclothes ain't lingerie, pal.
• That girlish giggle will one day soon be reserved for getting out of tickets and getting free drinks at the bar. You won't hear it unless you overhear it.
  

You enjoy the rest of your life, ok?

Be Easy,
KZ

Game Over

It always happens in my head like this:

I see the woman of my dreams across the room at a social gathering. A formal get together. Everyone’s drinking, including the two of us. I smile. She looks over at me, a little startled, then she looks away. I walk over and I start my spiel.

I’m equal parts Tricky (from the little seen, vastly underappreciated “Under The Cherry Moon”), James Bond, Detroit Red, and my older brother Zachary. I can’t lose. Except for the part of me that’s Zach. Zach always loses, but he’s funny in the process.

“Enjoying yourself?” I ask, not particularly interested in the answer, but willing to listen. “I don’t know. It’s a little staid for my taste. How about you?” “I can’t say that I’m not enjoying myself, but I understand your dilemma. You don’t have the same things to look at as I do.” At that point I sip, waiting to see if this bullshit bait is taken. “Point taken,” she says, smiling, “but the view isn’t so bad from where I’m standing either.” She sips, giving me time to contemplate what comes next. “Perhaps we can find something else to do, go somewhere that’s a bit more to your liking.” “What do you have in mind?” “I have a place in mind. It’s someplace where we can ruminate on the origin of the phrase ‘fits like a glove’.” I take her hand, and we take leave of our guests.

This is the way it would happen in real life:

I’m over a friend’s house that is having an informal get together. I see the woman of my dreams who is clearly irritated that I keep looking in her direction. As soon as she dips away from the rest of the crowd, maybe to go to the kitchen or the restroom I’m there.

“Ay, how you doin’?” “I’m fine.” “You sholl is. Dang. It’s like them jeans is sewed around that ass.” “Excuse me?” I start to speak louder, “I said, ‘It’s like them jeans is sewed around that ass’.” The woman then walks off in a huff and rejoins the rest of the group.

I was born with an affliction called formally known as Lackus Schemia, or the Zed Zednanreh Syndrome. (What kind of irony is that to be afflicted with a condition named after you?) I gots no game. None. Nada. It doesn’t exist. My last name nor my brother’s last name is Parker. There is no Milton Bradley in my family tree. I believe that all the run I’ve ever gotten has been in spite of the shit that comes out of my mouth.

It takes a certain amount of braggadocio and bluff to pull off the Mack thing. I lack both of those things in spades. I hate braggers and name-droppers. And I can’t bluff to save my life. If I’m standing in front of you, I’ll never be able to convince you of something that wasn’t true. My face is a living lie detector. It gives up the goods on me every time.

If I had some level of game, I’d be a master hustler, probably at least “hood rich” or something. I wonder how much shit I leave on the table by being a dork.

Be Easy,

KZ