A hale and hearty good afternoon to you all, and to our many Orthodox friends in the greater NYC area, I encourage you to have a most enjoyable Sabbath after the sun sets in a few hours.
My name is Tad the Cad—not really—and this will be the first installment in an ongoing series about the best places to meet women, assuming that you’re a shallow guy with low standards who’s looking for nothing beyond casual pump-’em-and-dump-’em sex.
My basic premise for this series is that the best places to meet women—sure, not the most attractive women physically, nor the most desirable ones aesthetically, but women—by which I mean “walking vaginas over the age of 18″—is at public gatherings which are likely to be occupied by 90% females, with the remaining sliver of males consisting almost entirely of gaybirds. Assuming that the 10% of men at such events will be 90% gay, you will find yourself as the TRUE “1”%—that is, a heterosexual male surrounded by what are likely to be hordes of dissatisfied, lonely, and fundamentally confused women whose crotches buckle in desire at the merest whiff of raw male testosterone.
This is where yoga classes become helpful.
Although they are superficially about “mind,” “spirit,” “healing,” and “oneness,” yoga classes typically consist of nothing more than “stretching” and “public farting,” activities which for some reason appeal more to the feminine soul than the masculine one.
But the moment you unfurl your yoga mat and assume the Startled Crane Position or whatever they’re pushing this session, you will find yourself surrounded by a Sea of Female Ass. Most of these asses will be fat or wrinkled, but there will also likely be firm and well-toned asses that are able to twist your dick into a pretzel. These, naturally, are the asses for which you aim.
Once you slog through the class, your best bet is to strike up a conversation with an ass of your choosing. Pretend you’re interested when she starts talking about her 14 cats and her 14 failed relationships with men who “just don’t understand” her. Although by instinct you correctly perceive her as a confused ball of tangled emotion, you should pretend as if you understand her strictly within the confines of her delusional self-image. Most importantly, pretend you understand her as someone who has been wronged.
After enduring all the idle chitchat you can muster without wanting to punch something, suggest to her that you needed some extra time to practice the Startled Crane Position. Then lightly suggest that she seems like the perfect person to help you. Once you get back to her studio apartment—and if you can stand the smell of Nag Champa and cat urine—that ass is yours for as long as you can stand it.
—TAD THE CAD
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