I had the great fortune of playing fly-on-the-wall and people-watcher as a joined a group of co-workers for a belated birthday celebration. The birthday boy was adamant about bringing back into play his "Rope-a-ho" strategy, and really, if the Mayans had for some reason placed "college night" on the doomsday calender, Midnight Rodeo would be the temple to worship at. Lets not mince words, this is the night where young co-eds practically snail-trail the dance floor looking for tail.
The biggest obstacles to the "Rope-a-ho":
- Fake Shit-kickers: These are the guys that basically look like they are wearing a Halloween costume. Obscenely large beltbuckles, their mothers shoulderpads, semen-obstructing tight jeans - they basically took the idea of a western get-up and filtered it through their hetero-metro sense of fashion. You know who I am talking about: those kids who slather their hair in mousse, yet ALSO wear a 10-gallon hat. These posers are pervasive throughout the Skank Barn, and because they can't really dance, they linger on the fringes and make up the bulk of the obscenely long bar line, obstructing ones own attempt to either drink the horrors of line dancing into a void (me) or getting a drink for lady in a timely fashion.
- Real Shit-kickers: Though they may have an IQ and identity forged from long days shoveling horse-muck out in the stables and a God-fearing hatred of Harry Potter and his "devil sorcery," these ogres can fucking line dance. The biggest threat to the "rope a ho" is trying to compete with these guys on the dance-floor; lets face it, it's not going to happen. One of the simple truths of the real shit-kickers' existence is that they unconsciously know that line dancing is their mating ritual - their one and only shot to get laid. The best shot is to try and isolate your target outside of the confines of the dance floor, or wait to pick up the pieces once the girl actually has a conversation with a shit-kicker; Chances are, once the chick hears that he is going to Sul Ross to be a "Rodeo technician," she'll fly straight into your waiting arms. The bright side is that if any target-girls choose a shit-kicker, it says a helluva lot about their mental stability, and you probably dodged a bullet.
- Guardian Sea-Cows: Listen, I hate to make snap judgments. Yet, there is just one fact that just simply IS, and that's that the girl ratio at Midnight Rodeo consists of 1:1 or 1:2 fat-friend to hot-friend. It's obvious how in wild this strategy would have helped primitive attractive human females as our ancestors finally descended from the trees, and that is you just need physical insurance against the aggressive males. In an effort to be more selective in their choice of a mate that would be a reliable hunting/gathering provider, those primitive females would recruit the other females with the obvious glandular problems - probably with promises of extra bananas - to serve as constant wards against any "handsy" males. On second thought, any fat-primitive females would probably have been shunned for slowing down the group and their whining about the lack of "banana breaks," and would have been exiled to serve as training for infant hyenas. So really, your best bet is to bring your own fat friend or someone else to lure away these gyrating manatees from the rest of the herd. Divide and conquer.
In the end I came up with a pretty fool-proof solution for my friends the next time we decide to brave the potential obstacles of the Skank Barn. Ahead of time, we'll print up fake business cards that read, "Chaucer and Fairbanks: Modeling and Talent Agency." If anyone is willing let us use a real number to screen calls from hot girls, let me know (Right now we are using Ben Pollock's number). Handing out those = ice-breaker WIN.
I know your thinking, "Hey, wouldn't the Guardian Sea-Cows be pissed they didn't get a card?" Don't worry, we already have a "Stay Pufft Bakery: Good for One Free Cupcake" coupon in the works.
beautiful clint, just beautiful. although i wasn't implementing the "rope-a-ho" strategy that night, i must say, i went with the time honored take down your buddy's targets side arm. the wing man special backfired like a son of a bitch when after chatting the side arm up for nearly 2 hours, the hammer was dropped as if thor swang that shit from the heavens. the "boyfriend" bomb was delivered and destroyed its target (both my big and little head) in one fell swoop! as if that wasn't deflating enough the newly renamed dream crusher proceeded to bitch about how bad her boyfriend treats her and regaled me with one bullshit example after another. i actually had sympathy for the bastard after this exchange, because he clearly has a woman with no understanding of common courtesy or a sense of timing. as i walked away from this tragic waste of a trip down memory lane it occured to me, andy was the ho being roped, and i the mf-ing grenade. i hate being fat
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