Things to Avoid in the Pursuit of Cute Girls

Don't visit the Amazing Fair of Oddities thinking you will meet cute girls. Don't beg your little sister for a ride there and then walk at least five or six steps ahead of her so you can pretend you came alone. Don't leave your mouth open long after you tell her to meet you in the parking lot three hours later. Don't wear a bomber jacket with a fuzzy white collar.

Don't be a male named Alice.

Don't waste a chilly, grey day best suited for staying inside reading and drinking something hot from your favourite mug at some weirdo festival. Don't stand outside watching overweight parents in Easter egg-colored short shorts feed their five year-olds whole turkey legs. Don't convince your sister that the Amazing Fair will "totally" live up to its name when the oddities include cowboys who spit tobacco into coffee cans, tumour-faced chain smokers, alphabet belchers, the tattooed, the gruff, the uneducated.

Don't forget to bring enough money. Don't confuse nine-dollar Friday with five-dollar Thursday. Don't ignore your sister when she says that half of these people could have saved themselves a few bucks by staying home and peering into their mirror.

Don't sneak away while your sister is watching a two-legged dachshund chained to a pole as it wobbles on its hind legs, in a constant struggle with gravity, pacing like Sisyphus as kids reach through the bars trying to pet it.
Don't set up your carnival game between a man who juggles shrunken heads and the quadriplegic wrestling ring.

Don't choose to run a mundane game where you shoot wooden ducks with a water gun in a place where they sell locks of John Lennon's hair, pumpkin-sized funnel cakes buried in powered sugar, Power Rangers piñatas and whale bones.

Don't say, "Come on, pretty thing. Give it a try. Anybody can do it."

Don't smirk when she shoots you a look.


            Don't creep up on a girl looking at a fetus in a pickle jar as she taps it with her fingernail. Don't assure her it’s real when you have no idea. Don't leave the top buttons on your silk shirt open. Don't wear tangled, cheap, gold-plated chains over your chest hair. Don't smile if your teeth are the color of squashed bugs.

Don't say "Hey baby dolls, you come here alone?" in a Russian accent.

Don't ask her if she has a boyfriend as if that is the only reason she is ignoring you and imagining the fetus' eyes opening suddenly.

Don't tell a girl about how big your dick is.

Don't eye her ass as she walks away from you in disgust.

Don't walk up to a girl while putting grilled kielbasa sausage in your mouth. Don't hit on a girl when she can smell the Mexican Wolf-Man who is behind rusty bars and crouching above some loose hay. Don't try to talk over him growling and banging on the bars.

Don't wear midnight-black dress slacks and a navy polo where your belly hangs out of the bottom.

Don't have fingers like spider legs.

Don't mention the tap-dancing Siamese twins and make a lame joke about them having two left feet.  Don’t fake laugh.  Don't assume that your fakeness is somehow lessened by all the surrounding fakeness; the so-called blood on the wolf-man's torn khaki pants, the giant, pink giraffe with pink paint dripping around its feet, the paper-mâché petrified forest, the tank full of ravenous sharks that pass through each other.

Don't slur your words. Don't stare at her breasts that are mostly hidden under a fleece the color of poppies.

Don't make a girl want to spit on your horrible, Vincent Price-esque face. Don't make her want to grab you by the collar and tell you to leave her alone.  Don’t keep following her, even if you are six yards away.

Don't fail to notice when your sister has been crying. Don't fail to ask her why her face is flush with anger. Don't take it lightly when she says she wants out of the place. Don't say that you'll take a look at the medieval torture devices and then you'll go home.

Don't think buying her a bottle of Heineken solves anything.

Don't walk away and start flirting with a Hawaiian girl.


            Don't grab a girl's ass with your big, rough hand. Don't smile about it. Don't tower over her with your chains dangling near her face. Don't stare at her in a way that makes her think of rape.

Don't say, "You know you like it."

Don't incite a rage that has been building all day, a volcano inside her that has been growing since her breasts first grew big enough to need a bra.

Don't inspire a girl to throw a Heineken bottle at your face. Don't cringe as it smashes on your forehead and beer sprays on your cheeks. Don't let your blood gurgle up out of your sliced skin.

Don't make her cry.

Don't say, "You bitch!" like you are the victim.

Don't pick the green bits of bottle from out of your head as the sound of the glass breaking reverberates in hers.


            Don't hook your sister with your arm as she runs by and hold her forcibly still.

Don't do anything when she hugs you like she wants to break you. Don't ask questions when she rubs her tear-soaked face against the sewn-on American flag patch on your jacket.



- Ryan Dilbert