Game: Not Having It, And The Hilarious Repercussions

The concept of “game” has always been a foreign one to me. That could very well be because my experiences of meeting female humans have been carried out in the traditional sense. You know, the one where you meet them, talk to them about important things, like FEELINGS and $HIT, then invite them over to watch Harry Potter, even though you secretly hate Harry Potter, then try to hold their hand.

Next time, you will ask them to make dinner with you, because your mom went out of town for business, then you make a $hitty stir fry, and get a Jamba Juice afterwards and laugh about how Strawberries Wild is way better than a** flavored homemade teriyaki sauce. It is at this point that you tell the girl that you think she is “super cool” and would like to “hang out more.”

Then of course, you make-out, and if you are anything like me, you lick her face off like you’ve left chocolate sauce at the bottom of that bowl that is so deep that you get drippings of delicious ice-cream smeared on your chin. That is how everyone makes out when they are 14. Then you realize being 14 sucks, because you just tried to grab the girl of your dreams boob, and she gave you a look of disgust that rivaled her expression when you told her that “Razzmatazz is actually way worse than Strawberries Wild, and Mango Madness sucks.”

Yeah, those were the simple days. Also known as the days when I could actually get a female human being’s phone number.

I recently went out “clubbing” in Bend, Oregon, which should totally not be called “clubbing,” it should be called “going out and seeing women who probably look at you and think ‘you probably went to high school with my son.’

Okay, so middle aged women, no problem, right? 30, 35, 40, cool. They should be willing, even EAGER to pay attention to 21-year-old’s, right? RIGHT?

The night started off normal enough, dancing at a semi-crowded bar with creaky wood floors to “Get Low” and “Yeah” which are officially the two most overplayed songs of all time, but simultaneously the best songs to listen to when trying to seduce women with your killer dance moves, DUH.

It is a very unfortunate predicament that I find myself in at dance clubs. Firstly, God clearly wanted some entertainment when he assembled my body. My quadriceps are the length of a twin sized bed. My feet are the size of the room in which that bed resides. And my dance moves are the sweaty, hairy overweight man that hangs off the side of it while eating a Sub-Sandwich and mayonnaise drips down his naked, exposed fur coat of a chest.

To compound this problem, I also happen to be extremely fond of lyrics. All lyrics. And in some demented way, in my mind, I think knowing the lyrics to these awful early 2000’s rap songs somehow makes up for the fact that when I move my body, the women around me on the dance floor become instantly attracted to things like: other women, that barstool, and the other side of the dance floor.

The result is me, all 79 inches of me, mouthing every single lyric, to every single song, all the while trying to make creepy eye contact with any girl that will look at me. I know it’s weird, I know it’s borderline socially unacceptable, but it makes me feel in my element on the dance floor, and I never, ever, stop. Ever.

Oddly enough, mouthing the words “till the sweat drop off ma ballz/ all these b****es crawl/ aw, skeet skeet mother-f***er/ aw, skeet skeet God D***” to your dancing partner is apparently a worn out strategy in the ever-complicated “game.”

APPARENTLY, chanting a word that is slang for female sexual secretion, and advertising the perspiration that falls from your baby-bag while dancing is “unappealing” and “offensive” to the women that probably made me and their sons frozen pizza after my high school basketball games, when I spent the night at their house. WHATEVER.

I guess that trick wore off in the 8th grade, which was coincidentally also the last time anyone had listened to those songs on purpose.

From the beginning, I was probably wearing a sign on my head that said “don’t acknowledge me as a heterosexual, single, possibly above mediocre-looking man.”
I walked into the bar with a fellow 6’7 basketball player, and a 6’10 friend of ours. To make matters worse, despite my height, I was stopped for a good 3 minutes at the entry, facing all sorts of super-original, ever-entertaining harassment for being tall, awkward, and having the facial features of a pre-pubescent boy.

“Man, you look about a day past 16. Did you just get your license?” The security guard with more hair on his neck than I have on my head asked.

“Yeah, my mom just dropped me off actually. Learners permit,” I say, trying to show this guy I have a good humor about how I look like an less-handsome Shia Lebouff on stilts, Even Stevens era.

“I wouldn’t joke about it, when it’s true, man,” he says, effectively telling me what is funny and what is not.

“Look, I seriously don’t believe that you are 21,” he says.

“I mean, you look just like your ID picture. It’s not like I think this wasn’t you when you were 16. I just think this picture was taken yesterday,” he added.

“Yeah, I know, I look young.” I say, growing irritated and embarrassed.

“What are ya, a basketball player?” He asked.

“No, water-polo,” my friend responded.

I laughed.

“S**t’s not funny man. Water polo is hard. Except it probably wouldn’t be for you, you could touch the bottom. You’d just be standing the whole time. You’d be great at it!” Security-a** said.

It was at this point that the other people in line started getting into it, trading various “how’s the weather” comments, before he let me in to the club.

Once in the club, I managed to dance with two girls. One for ten seconds before she said she “has to pee, but will be RIGHT back” and the other who probably said “I wish I had to pee, so that could give me an excuse to get away from you. Also, why are you sweating so much?”

I never saw either of these girls again. Oh wait, that isn’t true. I saw both of them, five minutes later, dancing happily with other guys.

“Probably just a bad club. Everyone has a bad club. I just wasn’t feeling the vibes there, you know? The dance floor was too hot. My feet hurt. That DJ sucked. Those girls were ugly anyway,” I blurted to anyone who would listen.

“Totally, man. You’ll get ‘em next time,” my friend said.

But when my friend said “you’ll get ‘em next time,” I think he meant “never try to speak to a female human again. They hate you. Deal with it.”

Dancefloor #2:

The problem with me and dancing is not so much the fact that women at clubs don’t find it appealing. The problem with me dancing is that I dance.

Think of all of the things that you are not very good at. They are probably also the things that you stay away from. Snakes. Are you a snake handler? Do you play with snakes? Do you run around with a pile of snakes, just hanging out, doing snake stuff? Do you hate snakes? I don’t like snakes. I stay away from snakes.

Country music. I can’t sing like Garth Brooks. I am not as confusingly attractive as the 15-year-old Miley Cyrus (I said it, you were thinking it). Country music is awful. I don’t have country music on my ipod.

Dancing. Are you good at dancing? If the answer is yes, you do it all the time.

Dancing. Are you AWFUL at dancing? When you dance, does it look like your pant-legs and the sleeves of your t-shirt are on fire, and you are trying to fan them out when you dance? Do people swarm to your rescue? Does it look like you are in pain when you move your body? Even if the answer is yes, YOU STILL DO IT. Much to the dismay of everyone around you, YOU STILL DO IT. Because it is socially unacceptable to stand still in the middle of the dance floor.

“Are you okay?” This reasonably attractive woman said to me. I was so excited that a woman was speaking to me, I went to my go-to reply line, even though I had no idea what she said.

“I know, right?” I replied. I figure it’s a solid line, because it’s impartial. It works for most everything, because, really, I am just agreeing with what you said. Unless the preceding statement was “my grandmother just died, I am really sad. Also, you are ugly, and the way you dance makes me want to leave the country.”

“I KNOW, RIGHT!?”

“Um, I asked if you are okay,” she said, louder this time.

“I’m not gay!” I replied.

“Are you OKAY!?” She screamed.

“OH! Um, yeah, why?” I said.

“The way you were dancing. It looked like you were hurt,” she replied.

It was at this moment that I laughed, and figured this was a start to a really sweet romance. Like, the spunky, sassy girl who calls you out for being tall and awkward, but ends up being totally into you, and you stay at the club until 3 AM dancing your blistered toes to the bone.

“Haha! Yeah, duh. Does it LOOK like I am fine?” I said, most likely before a poorly executed spin move of some sort that involved way too much finger-pointing, and probably a wink or maybe an eyebrow raise. My confidence was undoubtedly ill-conceived, considering how the earlier part of the night went.

“Alright, my friends wanted me to ask you, because we thought it looked like you twisted an ankle earlier, or something. It looks like you are in pain,” she replied.

It’s cool though, because when the music is so loud at clubs, you can pretend she’s saying something else. Obviously, in an attempt to salvage my ego, I read her lips, and she definitely said “I just wanted to let you know that you don’t look injured at all when you dance, and I actually need to go get new underwear because of the way your body moves. I pissed myself at the very thought of you and I dancing together. If you were any sexier, I would call the fire department, because your attractiveness could burn this mother effer down, you filty beast of masculine sex appeal.”

Actually, I didn’t picture her saying that at all. I pictured her saying the words to the song being played, which was far less offensive than asking if I was in pain while dancing.

“Party Rock is in the house tonight,” she SAID.

“Everybody, just have a good time,” she added. And I did. I had a great time. A GREAT TIME, okay?

Then we got Jamba Juice, and watched Harry Potter. Game? Psch. Who needs game?

On Being 6'7. And Awkward. And Dancing. I see a lot wrong with a little bump and grind.

Do you remember graduating high school? I do. I remember being irrationally pissed off that my gown didn't reach my ankles and I didn't get to give the farewell speech. I made really funny jokes, I swear, but they gave it to this girl that got in a really serious car accident. I couldn't REALLY be mad, but I actually was. And still am. Don't tell.

But seriously, my favorite part of graduating high school was the fact that I would not EVER have to attend a dance. Ever again. Little did I know, I would be attending High School 3 years later, at Willamette University High School. Where you're cool if you play sports, but you're cooler if you play sports, aim to save the world in the near future, dress like a hipster on occasion, and SHAMELESSLY GRIND YOUR PRIVATES OFF AT EVERY GIVEN OPPORTUNITY.

At Willamette University High, dancing is like breathing. Everyone does it. And when I say "breathing" I mean rhythmic humping, erections at inappropriate times and repeated, vigorous body contact with Young Jeezy in the background. So really it's more like gym class. Which is unfortunately not offered at WUHS.

I never danced. Ever. Like, literally at dances I would stand and do that awkward head-nod, neck-bob where you snap your fingers and tap your toes and every single female organism around you says "oh my god who is that and why is he having a seizure?" To that, her friend would most certainly reply, "I don't know, but that pole has terrible dance moves."

Fortuntately, or unfortunately, depending how you look at it, I have overcome my phobia of moving my hips in rhythm. Or attempting to. Yes, I dance now. I mean, I find girls and rub my crotch up against their bottoms. But just because I partake in this bottom-rubbing does not mean I am not an awful dancer. Quite contrary, I am almost sure that I am an awful dancer. Evidence? Glad you asked.

Things that have happened:

Scenario 1:

Me: (That girl looks like it would be fun to rub my groin-area against her backside. Do I have to ask her to dance? Or do I just go do it? Why do I feel like a 13 year old boy?)

Girl: (After a good three minutes of me awkwardly standing there) "Do you want to dance...??"

Me: Blurfandsghande. Um. Yes. I would like to. If that's okay?

Girl: Sure. (3 minutes of sweaty awkward body-friction pass. "Get Low" is played. I haven't heard that song since 8th grade, which seems fitting.)

(I rap Ludacris's verse. Loudly and obnoxiously. Looking back, I have no idea why I thought this girl would find this remotely enjoyable. "We want a lady in the street but a FREAK in the bed!" I yell, way too loud, probably way too close to her ear.)

Girl: I have to go find my friends.

Scenario 2:

(I learned from previous mistakes. Don't ask, just grind. I approach girl, and begin crotch-knocking in a rhythmic fashion.)

Girl: Why do you look like you just took a bath with all of your clothes on? Me: (slightly out of breath) IT'S...REALLY HOT DOWN...HERE!

Girl: I have to go find my friends. Then take a shower.

Scenario 3: (I finally find a girl who doesn't mind that my shirt is holding the Pacific Ocean. The problem is she is 5 feet tall.)

We dance for a few songs. After twenty minutes of my AREA being level with her middle back, she decides to strike up conversation.

Girl: Are you having fun?

Me: Honestly? Dancing with you is like doing wall sits for a half an hour. I've been in the defensive stance this whole time. I hate defense...

Girl: You have no rhythm.

Scenario 4: One that still troubles me today.

I asked again, because this particular girl was extremely good looking.

Me: Do you wanna dance?

Girl: Where am I? (Rushes outside to vomit. Ego. Crushed.)