I broke my ankle yesterday. It hurts a lot and it isn’t much fun not being able to ride a motor-cycle or walk around without hobbling like a senile, octogenarian. But for all its curses, I’d have to say it’s probably the surest way to an easy lay.
To start off with, all the hobbling and limping (with some grimacing and teeth-clenching thrown in) attracts the attention – and more importantly, the sympathy – of all sorts of chicks. So normally, females who’s just pass me by with a smile or maybe a nod-hallo, are now stopping to inquire how my “poor little cutie sweetie-weetie ankle” is doing. I must admit this feels nicer than it sounds.
Of course, conversation then slips to inquiring how this so unfortunate a tragedy happened to come about. That’s when I mention I hurt it playing basketball (okay, so it was “human basketball” to be scrupulously precise, but no one’s heard of that anyway). That’s the magic word really – “Basketball”. After that, there are so many chicks queuing up with the express intention of humping you that one actually needs a coupon-system if one is to avoid complete and utter chaos.
If my ankle never heals, it would be too soon.
(Oh, I’m not sure if this is relevant, but the doctor tells me the pain-killers I’m on may cause delusional hallucinations. Oh, wait! Damn!)