Alright boys, let?s get somethin? straight

We can rebuild a fuckin? engine in the dark,

Rewire a car with a paperclip,

And fix a furnace with duct tape and prayer?

But a woman gives us a signal?

We?re dumber than a box of glowsticks in a blackout.

They don?t just walk up and say,

?Hey, big boy, take me home and ruin my future.?

Nope.

They send signals.

Little flirty, witchcraft-level hints that make your brain misfire

like an old Chevy on winter gas.

So me and the boys hit the bar Saturday night

on a mission to decode the female fuckin? Morse code.

We spot this smokin? brunette, laughin? with her friends.

Next thing you know, she slides up to my buddy at the bar,

brushes her arm across his chest like she?s checkin? the horsepower,

and gives him that smile.

You know - the ?your clothes are optional? smile.

And what does Romeo do?

He grunts.

Nods.

Then goes right back to tellin? me about his new goddamn golf clubs.

GOLF CLUBS!

Buddy, she?s handing you the green light, and you?re talkin? about your backswing?

You ain?t puttin? for birdie - you?re chokin? on the tee box of destiny!

Then there?s this redhead - tight black dress,

legs crossed, twirling her high heel like a damn fishing lure.

She?s throwin? out the ?come get me? look so strong it could melt a snowblower.

And what?s the genius she?s starin? at doin??

Watchin? the fuckin? hockey game.

Not her.

Not the world.

Just McKinnon skating in circles.

If this man were any more oblivious, he?d need a seeing-eye dog just to notice his own beer?s empty.

Then comes the finale - some big ol? tank of a woman stumbles outta the bathroom, belly out, moose tattoo tramp-stamp glistening under the neon light.

Eyes wild, hair lookin? like she fought a tornado and won.

She stumbles right into Hockey Boy.

???

Boom.

Contact.

He finally looks up- not ?cause the goddess in heels winked at him -

but ?cause he just got sacked by a human bulldozer in yoga pants.

Next thing you know, she?s grindin? on him like she?s auditionin? for a construction site calendar.

Then she licks his cheek.

This idiot?s grinnin? like he just won the fuckin? lottery.

Buys her a rum and Coke.

Meanwhile, the redhead?s sittin? there, shakin? her head like,

?Jesus, this is my dating pool??

And me?

I?m sittin? back with my beer, watchin? the apocalypse unfold, thinkin? - Boys, we?re doomed.

We could rebuild a carburetor blindfolded, but a wink from a woman?

That?s advanced fuckin? calculus.

?????????????...and that's callin' it like it is!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Canadian artist & digital troublemaker Colin John Cook shares his louder-than-life, awkward, and honest-as-hell stories. Packed with humour, real talk & creative insights in a no filter, digital comedy space that laughs at life & calls it like it is. He is also the Founder and President of

The Hidden Gallery - Art Studio & Micro Theatre

??