Not Likely to Succeed
Ahhh. Let me count the ways that this disturbingly disillusioned doofus is not likely to succeed in his quest for feminine companionship this evening.
First, our squat gentleman (?) friend here is certainly not going to succeed if he begins by accosting any member of the fairer gender in so crude and clichéd a manner. I believe ‘fox’ was officially retired as an appellation to be applied to hotties — no matter their age — several generations back (though I understand ‘cougar’ may still be acceptable today under certain circumstances).
Nor is this guy likely to succeed with that über-Jack-Lord flying forelock of his. (Book ‘im, Dan-o!) Does he think that it’s somehow entertaining for anyone within a four foot radius to be poked in the eye by a soaring shard of Brylcreemed cowlick? Snip it, man!
And what is with the matching extreme sideburns and mustache wings? Is the man under some mistaken impression that the presence of such flamboyant facial accoutrements might make his fat head appear not quite so fat? Nope. Not working.
The dude’s also likely to strike out because of his loving perpetual grip on a sloshing Rob Roy. He hasn’t had an empty fist all night. Who the !@#$%^&* even knows what a Rob Roy is anymore, for drunkard’s sake? His exceedingly slim chances might swell slightly if he took up the appletini, or some other with-it cocktail from this century.
Next, the flowered shirt with the 747-wing collars and the French ruffle cuffs has got to go. A simple black scoop-neck tee would serve him much better (and wouldn’t strain our vision anywhere near as much). And while he’s at it, he might consider swapping his mariachi-band uniform — with the colorful hand-stitched cummerbund — for some casual-Friday chinos or denim. This is not, after all, the center stage of the Copacabana of the late 1940s.
News flash: lose the lady slippers, as well! Trade those cute prissy two-tone patent jobs with the Beatle-boot flair for a discreet pair of boat shoes or monochrome sneakers. Anything a bit less garish. Why draw unnecessary attention to your feet? They’re just feet!
I’d also suggest that our boy get rid of his ever-lovin’ cancer stick. Even those who still smoke don’t light up on the dance floor.
And before he’s done, our lone lothario might consider some elective personal procedures to close that tooth gap, or to nip that proboscis a bit. Couldn’t hurt!
And last, but decidedly not least, I would suggest that our poor putz on the prowl try to find somewhere else to venture on a weekend evening than a disco. (How did he even manage to find one still in operation after lo these many decades?) No one discos anymore, certainly no one attractive to the opposite sex. So, get outta here fella! Head to your nearest car wash, or bowling lane, or all-night Laundromat, or pizza-n-wings drive-thru, or public library, or DMV office — anywhere you might actually find a candidate: single, breathing, and reasonably human.
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