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I’d like to take this opportunity to thank one of the unsung heroes of today’s society, so raise a shot glass because this one goes out to you: Dumb-Dumb The Hot Chick. We’ve met several times, in all of your various forms.

Dumb-Dumb The Hot Cashier: You were the super hot cashier at Toys R Us when my friend and I went shoppiong for a present for his six year old niece. You seemed to have complete understanding that the cash register would do all of the work for you, so I don’t blame you for being dumb-founded when, after he paid and the computer told you what change to give, he found the exact change in his pocket. Of course you could have just given him a dollar back and taken the change but that deer in the headlights look you gave us made it perfectly clear: You’re hot, and no one should expect you to do math.

Dumb-Dumb The Hot Bar Chick: As you were sipping your fruity alcoholic slushy you butted into the conversation my friends and I were having. It was forgiven because you were hot and one of my friends decided he wanted to poon you in the ass. However, as the conversation progressed, and I got drunker and mouthier, I accused you of doing blow and clown porn. The most priceless moment of the night was when you looked at me and said, “I saw that Johnny Depp movie so I know that blow is cocaine, but what’s a clown?” I had to walk away then and there because:
A) I’ve got a girlfriend and I can’t abuse your naivety to allow me to face fuck you and…
B) I was choking from stifling back laughter which, if let out, would ruin my friends’ chances of abusing your naivety and face fucking you. So thank you Dumb-Dumb The Hot Chick, that laugh made my night.

Dumb-Dumb The Hot Sorority Girl: It was girls like you that made living in Isla Vista completely worth it, even though you never spoke to me in public. If it weren’t for your overt need to prove you could get anywhere in life that you wanted by simply mouth-a-fying an occasionally wang no one would understand how you managed to muddle through your chemical engineering class, (even though you still pronounced nuclear as NUKE-U-LER) I have to say though, Dumb-Dumb the Sorority Girl, my fondest memory of you is the weekend we would spend together. Oh I was never invited to the parties you attended but I got a kick out of sitting on my darkened, second story, balcony, in all black, with a bottle of vodka, and shooting you, and your friends, with my airsoft guns. What made it that much more special was when you would drunkenly stumble back hours later, and I could shoot you again.

It’s okay though, Dumb-Dumb The Hot Chick, you do have some redeeming qualities. The combination of low cut shirts and low rise jeans completely counteracts the fact that you can’t do long division, which isn’t actually all that hard. But it’s okay, because I can see a little nipple so I’ll let that slide. That and the fact that the drunker you get the more likely it is you’ll show me the tattoo that “daddy doesn’t know about” which resides just inches above parts I’m not supposed to see on a bar patio. I’m also 98.5 percent sure that one more shot of Jaegermeister will get you to flash me your tits. For that I’ll forgive that one of your life’s goals is to have a sugar daddy. But the greatest thing about you, Dumb-Dumb The Hot Chick: You’re as gullable as the ocean is wet. You’ll believe anything I say as long as I don’t get that look on my face that screams, “I can’t believe she’s buying this shit.”

Quite frankly, Dumb-Dumb The Hot Chick, I love you. After all, if it weren’t for you and your ilk, I’d miss out on some of my favorite things in life: Like Hooters, Girls Gone Wild, Strip Clubs and spring break stories that include phrases like,. “I’ve never fooled around with another girl, but…” and three shots of tequila later you’re face deep in the crotch of the chick you’re sharing a hotel room with. God Bless you Dumb-Dumb The Hot Chick, and just to let you know, I’m only driving this piece of shit Ford Fiesta until the Jag is out of the shop. And I promise that I will call you, that is of course unless I’m called away on a super secret spy mission. In which case, if I see you in the same bar next weekend I’ll pretend not to know you….because I’m undercover.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, May 30th, 2006 at 5:57 am and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.