Pimp Daddy and His Sweet Thangs

Dear Reid,

I never thought that something like this would happen to me. Friday night I was at this party, drinking SoCo and Tang (I’m of age so it’s ok), and having a generally good time all around. The party was lively – there was music, dancing, conversation, even a little wrestling – and attendance was tipped comfortably to the female side on a scale something like 4:1. Basically, I found myself more in demand than I’m normally used to. I’m talking about cuddling on the couch with not one, but three different women during the evening.

Well, eventually the time came when my quart-sized sports bottle was drained, and a group of kids from an over-crowded kegger came streaming in. At this point, I took the opportunity to slip out the door with a small group headed for The Bar. Upon hitting the sidewalk, I was surprised (though I guess it’s statistically likely given the makeup of the party) to find myself amidst a group of four ladies. Then one of them said, “Hey, check it out! We picked up a boy at the party!” Soon I found myself walking along arm-in-arm in a line with four bodacious blondes, flanked by – I kid you not – twins!

So, in a heavenly dreamlike state, I’m walking along the streets of Morris, being fawned over by four women, who, incidentally, began calling me their “Pimp Daddy” and giving me little hugs and kisses along the way. Later at The Bar I got kissed twice more, just on the merit of telling my story of the walk over.

Now, you may wonder why I felt I needed to all share this with you. The thing is, I can’t figure out for the life of me what I did different that night than any other night at any other party. I’ve never in my life experienced anything close to that kind of magnetism, or luck. The only thing I can figure is that it had something to do with the full moon.

Sincerely,
Pimp Daddy

I know how you feel. You’re probably getting a real laugh out of this, seeing that I actually printed your letter and all. Now, you’re obviously starved for attention and more than a little lonely to have gone and fabricated such a cockamamie, unbelievable, preposterous line of fantasy like this. No, I don’t believe your little tale for a second. You had me going with the overbalanced female population at the party, but, come on, don’t you think you were overdoing it just a little with the twins?

I can tell by your extreme state of embellishment that you are obviously one lonely bastard, and for this I can sympathize with you. It’s not easy to deal with loneliness, and sometimes the more alone you feel the harder it is to get out of that mode and go make a friend. Your problem is that you are trying too hard.

I’ve seen it all before: you feel separated, left out of conversation. In order to break into a conversation, you come up with some wild, exciting story, telling of your cooky escapades. If I make myself interesting, you think, then everybody will like me and want to be my friend. This is a common idea, but it’s just dead wrong. People are generally annoyed by those who try to make friends by spinning fantastic yarns. The stories may seem plausible to you as you tell them, but actually come out sounding just like what they are: a big fat pile of bogosity.

The real way to make friends is to simply be yourself. Honesty is the best policy, you are who you are. If people don’t like who you are, well, then you should lie. But at least make the lies believable. Twins, for Pete’s sake!

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