This chump, who calls himself "Mystery" (I seriously cannot make this sh*t up), is the very definition of a "don't." He's also the definition of an asshat. In fact, I think that's a rarely seen actual asshat perched over Mystery's ever-so-douchingly manicured soul-patch and overly guy-lined eyes. And, don't get me started on the lady's locket, the binoculars and the (what is that, chenille?) boa floating below -- and I can't emphasize the wrongness of this enough -- his ever-so-douchingly manicured soul-patch and overly guy-lined eyes. I don't get it.
Don't get me wrong, most girls like a dude who knows how to properly accessorize. Maybe that involves a scarf (not a boa), a hat (not Pam Anderson-inspired) and even some jewelry (not a junior high school girl's locket), but I can tell you that it never -- I mean never -- involves a soul-patch or poor makeup application skills. I solved the Mystery -- he's the Hamburglar.
But behind the exterior that indicates Mystery's both blind and retarded (and quite possibly a thief of delicious hamburgers), he's developed an apparently effective method to pick up drunk skanks in bars, which makes up the premise of Mystery's show, The Pick Up Artist.
Currently airing on VH1, the channel where all brain cells go to die (which is probably why it's so addictive), the show takes a bunch of meek, female-fearing nerds, turns them into mini-Mysterys (-ies?) and then tests them each week to see who can pick up the most drunk skanks in some douchey club in Arizona. It really is reality teevee at it's best.
The most retardulous part of the show, though, is when these would-be manwhores get
But behind all the idiotic accessorizing and incredibly ridiculous pick-up lines (You like pickle juice? Really? Do you also like drinks thrown in your face, creeper?), are a couple of nuggets of good advice -- be confident, be funny and be cool. Too bad Mystery and his jagbag hangers-on, including a dude who calls himself "Matador" (I seriously long to make this sh*t up...), also advise these jagbag proteges to hide any newfound confidence under the exterior of being a Grade A douche. I suppose, however, if the advice wasn't clad in ridiculous clothing, it wouldn't make for a good VH1 reality show.
Which brings me to DC. At least Mystery is interesting. Interesting to laugh at, that is. A subsection of DC men, however, fail to inspire even that. There's an overwhelming group of dudes in DC who make up the dullest subsection of men in America, nay, the world, in my not-so-humble opinion. And that wouldn't be so bad if they didn't so often combine their devastating dullness with an overwhelming penchant for popped collars, pleated khakis and orthopedic shoes. It's a situation more pathetic than some of the "befores" that plead for Mystery's expertise.
SIDEBAR: Except for a kid named Bryan Ly, the wannabe womanizer on The Pick Up Artist who is anything but pathetic. This kid has the best one-liners in the history of ever. In the last episode when talking about the other contestants, he describes them as "family" before using the non-sensical, yet somehow suitable simile: "They're like a hair on my butt." Why does this guy need Mystery's help again?
Anybutthair, the bottomline (Yes! Scene points for "butt" wordplay!) is that, while the DC dating scene largely bores me, I'm probably a bit underqualified to dissect it, as I in no way will ever even try to begin to understand the mating rituals that occur between two government employees in love. I imagine all the sweet nothings would probably be reduced to a confusing set of acronyms, though: "You had me at ILYPK,* Herman."
And so, from my proverbial
*Can you guess what the acronym stands for? It's actually quite easy -- smokin' balls easy.