This is the most important advice you will ever read. Pay close attention.
I’ve got this friend. Let’s call him Albert.
(Albert’s not his real name. His real name is Derek, but I’m changing it to protect his identity.)
Albert fancies himself as a ladies’ man. To be fair, he is a bit of a ladies’ man.
Oh yes, the ladies love them some Albert.
He’s reasonably good looking, has a decent line in patter. But he’s also one of those guys who goes straight to the dancefloor when you hit the club, and therefore avoids having to buy the first round of drinks (cheapskate bastard).
And that’s where he works his wondrous skills.
He does some funky feet-wiggling black-magic, and before you’ve had time to identify your quarry for the night, he’s fighting off blondes.
Seerusly, it’s a sight to behold.
These girls embarrass themselves to catch his attention. They love them some Albert.
He’s not even that good looking. He just has a particular talent when it comes to eye-contact, hip-gyration and come-to-bed eyes.
Albert was out one night, doing his thang on the dance-floor. After settling on his victim, and getting her pheromones juiced, he came over to say goodbye, with the Amazonian beauty on his arm sporting a “take me” look.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he told me, and winked conspiratorially.
The next morning comes and my phone buzzes.
“How did it go, dude?” I asked.
“Oh man, a total disaster,” he said, and launched into the tale of what happened when he got home.
It turns out that Albert was pretty stoked to have nabbed such a beauty. They got home, he put some Luther Vandross on the gramophone and fixed them both a drink. A little light frottage and dry humping later and she goes to wait for him in the bedroom.
(Side note: Albert always jumps in the shower before he jumps into bed. Apart from the hygiene thing, he says it “keeps them keen”.)
Albert emerges from the shower about five minutes later and walks into the bedroom wearing nothing but a towel.
As usual, the girl is waiting for him, sporting her lingerie and a wide-on.
Albert gets excited.
Albert gets so excited, in fact, that he starts to sing. Nothing specific, just some stream of consciousness babblings to the tune of “I’m going to sex you up.”
Then, he starts to dance – a little stationary jig. His legs are going up and down, his head is bobbing backwards and forwards and his arms are swinging from side to side.
He’s not looking cool, by any means, but the girl doesn’t care. She thinks he’s fun and starts to laugh with him. Or at him. In any case, she’s not turned off, and beckons him into bed.
“Oh yeah,” he thinks, “fun times are here.”
He gets even more excited.
He gets so excited, in fact, that he cocks his left leg like a dog, scrunches up his face, and farts.
Not just a little squeak, but a proper ripper: a floor-shaking, pet-waking guff. This fart set off car alarms.
He decided, for reasons beyond reason, that the best way to celebrate bringing a hot chick home was to break wind, ostentatiously and with great gusto, only two feet from her head.
That’s when she stopped laughing.
She also got out of bed quicker than you can spell methane, and ran off into the night.
He never saw her again.
So here’s the lesson, and the most important advice you’ll ever hear:
If you’re going to pick up a hot girl in a nightclub, farting is an inappropriate means of celebration.
In fact, I’d say that you should save your farting in front of girls for when you’re married. Then you can fart like it’s going out of fashion.
It’s kind of expected.
Seven days ago, after three months of fertility treatment, nine months of pregnancy, six hours of labor and a lifetime of waiting we didn’t even know we were doing, my boy arrived.
I wrote this article just under a year ago, one week after the world changed forever.