Holy Taco’s managing editor and columnist Ian Fortey used to write for 86% of all sites on the internet. Then he found Holy Taco and it really turned him on. Then he wrote this, his first weekly column on the site. Exciting, ain’t it?
Science tells me I possess most of the chromosomes that would identify me as male, and that’s all I need to want some boobies. But like you, I am constantly bewildered and occasionally flabbergasted by the quest for boobies. Sometimes I just have to go back to that hole under the stars and cry while I burn my penis. You know how it is. But all that aside I have learned from pop culture that there are a few surefire ways to seduce the ladies with literally no effort. As long as I have a pulse, irregular though it may be thanks to years of vodka and hot dogs, I can get a girl. Or can I? I had to put it to the test.
Thanks to various laws about privacy and stalking, few of the photos I took over the course of this experiment were allowed to leave the club and, in fact, my camera was swatted right out of my hand into a puddle of piss in the washroom at one point. Turns out people don’t appreciate scientific photography. Still, the research is as sound as it is harrowing. Let’s see what happened, I can’t wait!
The Shower Gel/Deodorant Combo
In recent years it’s become obvious that, in order to be a proper man, I must smell like chemically simulated beaches, or chocolate, or the mighty Phoenix. Whether that’s the city, the insane actor or the bird of legend I am unclear, but I stunk like it in every crevice I had after my shower and was ready to let some ladies snuffle about just to prove it.
Commercials have told me that by using these products, I will become irresistible to women. The fact I don’t get sexually assaulted in my shower puzzles me to this day, but I assume it’s the ceiling vent that’s ruining my potential rogerings. The guy upstairs is probably getting boned in his sleep. He totally owes me.
Outside my building I was greeted by a neighbor. She has a 16 year old son and two of those mysteriously grey teeth. Like someone colored it with a pencil on the inside. What the hell is that? Anyway, she smiled at me, I grimaced, and she said hello. It’s not quite a BJ, but I like to think she has a bad sense of smell.
At my club of choice, I made myself obnoxiously obtrusive at the bar, rubbing against women and raising my arms whenever possible so that my Phoenixy man-musk would permeate the air like weaponized sex. I was told to f*ck off a record 5 times in a half hour. That’s almost dirty talk where I’m from, so that ain’t bad.
I opted next for the dance floor. Being a white, doughy internet comedy writer, a few drinks into the evening, my sense of rhythm was on par with a cow experiencing labor pains. But it was dark, so I figured I was good.
Three songs later I was sweating like a Jewish hooker with a ham sandwich and my smell had altered to something like “sweaty fat guy drinking beer.” There was a noticeable circle of loneliness around me.
Was I manly? Arguably. But one could argue that smegma is manly, as is a robust mane of an ass beard. Doesn’t make it attractive.
Near as I can recall, every brand of alcohol markets itself to men, except for the odd sherry or port that seems like it’s marketed to Frasier. Narrowing down the right manly drink wasn’t easy, until I remembered Jager is short for Jagermeister, which sounds like Mister, which means man. I am a Jager Man. Or I could be, if I was irresponsible enough with it. Unfortunately I’m just getting over a bit of a flu, so technically this whole article was irresponsible, but let’s not dwell on the past.
Honestly, I don’t think any man ever got lucky because he was drunk. They got lucky because the girl was drunk, or maybe she was dying and didn’t care, or she owed someone a favor that was huge, like “I gave you my kidney now pay me back” huge. And then right in the middle they tell you that’s why, and they start crying, and it totally kills the mood, but whatever my point was, I forget. Anyway, when you have the flu, it doesn’t take a ton of drinks to make you vomit.
Well before this experiment ended I lost sight of what the original purpose was supposed to be. Something about manliness, but really, when you stink like licorice and have puke in your shoes, it’s hard to maintain your suave demeanor. In any event, this little foray scored me no phone numbers nor even a lazy, bathroom handjob. What a sick world we live in.
Nothing screams man more than a condom, except this dude downtown with a sign about how he needs food or the government will use his corpse for research. He calls me man all the time, but he yells it across the street. “Gimme that sandwich, man!” “Where you going, man?” “I want your soul, man!”
I don’t keep condoms on hand because some years ago I accepted my lot in life and refused to pay more for shattered dreams. Nothing is more tragic than whipping out a condom when you finally need it only to realize its best before date was in the Clinton administration.
So it was to be a field trip to the pharmacy for me. Somewhat out of practice at this, I was taken aback by the selection. Flavors, colors, textures, KY warming lube, something that appeared to be a windsock, the whole section was petty intense. I chose Magnums, assuming I could use a belt if it came to that, but figuring the package would raise some eyebrows and off I went.
A handy thing to know is that, when your gut tells you to not show a strange girl your pack of condoms, even if it’s for a comedy article, you should trust your instincts. Comedy is a harsh mistress however, and that girl punched my face hard. And again, I was told to f*ck myself. Then she told her friends and they started insulting me. Then some dude called me a queer, which is preposterous because why would a queer be trying to pick up some fine honies with condoms? I mean, really. Come on. If anything those women should have been applauding my commitment to safe sexual rendezvous. Because I’ll be damned if I’m going to get the clap again.
It should go without saying that most women won’t be super impressed by your desire to bang them before you know their name, but the fact remains the legends of such ladies have never died. We all want to be the guy who tells the story of the time he met a really pleasant nymphomaniac who likes to play Xbox while she humps. In any event, you’ll never meet that woman by just showing off your jimmy hats. Mostly you’ll just your ass kicked.