Here is another great move for the upwardly mobile International Playboy on the rise:
It’s no secret that learning phrases in foreign languages greatly ups your chances for swooping fly International girls. For instance, I know how to say, “How about you and your girlfriend come to my crib, drink some champagne and take a bubble bath with me” in like 15 different languages.
However, to really get some traction, you are going to need to learn some fluency. The best way to do this? Get a private tutor.
Being that I like to get the most Bang for my Buck (and I don’t mean Roosh’s book Bang either, or maybe I do) I have been going with Spanish tutors.
This is also a great way to spend your time in America between International Strikes. (Side note: I am extremely bearish on American Nightlife and American Girls these days. And I am extremely bullish on International Nightlife and International Girls.)
Obviously, I don’t have to tell you that your private tutor should be female, young and fly.
Once you get her lined up for lessons, play it like you would meet any other fly girl: Go Suited Down, meet at a dope restaurant, drink wine, and spark up grits.
I have found that the best way to do this is to stay real professional during the lesson, peel off whatever she is charging you for the hour off a huge Bankroll (statement making move) and invite her afterwards for drinks. If you have Telenovela good looks like your humble author, she should respond affirmatively. From there, The Rest is up To You.
The best part about this move is:
1. You can swoop your tutor
2. You are learning a language to help you swoop more girls
3. You can smoke and drink while doing it
4. It’s a great “launch pad” for your night
A Classic “Win-Win-Win-Win” scenario.
This has been so effective for me that I have considered getting tutors in Italian, French, Portuguese, Mandarin, Catalan, Fukienese and Croatian.
Hell, I have even thought about getting an English tutor and going with that fake foreigner steez.
The Rest is Up to You…
Michael Porfirio Mason
AKA The Peoples Champ
AKA GFK, Jr.
AKA The Sly, Slick and the Wicked
AKA The Voodoo Child
The Guide to Getting More out of Life
Here is a new move from the most recent Chambers of The G Manifesto:
First things first, take some lessons and get your Salsa Game up to Par. The beauty of The Salsa Swoop Move is you don’t have to get great at Salsa, you just need to be better than a typical gringo, which isn’t saying much.
Now it doesn’t matter if in is Cali, Cartagena, Barcelona, Miami Beach, Medellin, Republica Dominicana , San Juan or Bayamon, just roll in the salsa spot like the Don Juan behind the Don.
Approach a fly girl or group of fly girls like you normally would rolling Dolo, like Tony without Manolo.
Being an American, sooner or later, the conversation will come around and she will ask you “What kind of music do you like?”
Always respond, “Música Latina, Salsa”.
She will then inevitably ask you if you dance Salsa.
Say, “No, I never have, but I think I can pick it up pretty quick, can you show me?”
She will always say “Of course”.
The trap is now set.
Once you start dancing, you “pick it up pretty quick” and start busting some ill Salsa. Any mistakes only give more authenticity to the move of just “learning it on the spot”.
Once she sees your Salsa Game, she will be amazed, her eyes will dilate, and falling for you, she will have an “A-ha” moment of sorts.
From here, it’s your Game to lose, Oh my Brothers.
It’s Middle of May and it is 105 degrees in the shade. I wake up wrapped in 1500 thread count sheets and a 5’10 dancer, a nice southern girl, of course. Went a bit too far last night, but damn, what does it even matter. You know I went out suited up and ran the strip from one end to the other. When I’m stepping out of the club with the hottest girl that was there on the way back to my room at the Bellagio, I see you looking. I’m in Vegas and I feel like Tony right after he gets back to his crib… “I gotta get organized”. Montana, not Soprano, minus the blow (for the most part). The suites at Bellagio, Caesars, and Wynn are so huge you can have a 12 person after party without the slightest bit of problem. The suites are equipped with elite furniture that is usually littered with those fly LA girls that I met last night, other bodies, Rose champagne bottles, some other girls tall ass Cavalli shoes, underwear, room service, and other products of a successful sunrise party. I never throw after-parties in my room though; the last time resulted in ejection from a 5-star in Atlanta at 6 in the morning. That’s how I do things.
Anyways, from my perspective, your body begins to shut down by your fourth day out here. You’ve got to pace yourself. I start every morning by sweating out the toxins, i.e. whatever vices I consumed the night before with a 30-45 minute workout at the hotel gym, and I make no excuses. The gym is always the most luxurious I have ever frequented and full of fly models and foreign girls; I really see no problem. There are attendants that bring me water replenishment, which is another key to defeating whatever hit me about the time I walked out of the Spearmint Rhino after strippers had been sweating me all night. And I wouldn’t pay them any attention, they hate that. If they are going to hustle someone for money they really wish it would be me instead of your lameass group of you and your bro friends. Maybe next time I tell them. They still love me. Las Vegas. This place is so electrifying…so sense-heightening…and so fucking addictive.
I always stock up on cloves/cigars before I get into town and everything else I need is always provided for me. I just hit my girl up at the Mirage and she sends me whatever I need (don’t even think I’ll reveal how I got that connect.) I always grab hotel matches and keep them sparking – everyone either uses these or diamond encrusted Dunhill lighters anytime they need heat. Another thing to remember is there is no concept of time here. I watch the sun come up and watch it go down here but that is about as good as it gets for time perception. There are no clocks anywhere and everyday is mine for the taking. I ride in limos and walk a lot and of course my shoes are comfortable because only cheap shoes hurt your feet. The only thought on my mind after walking back from the club right before sunrise is how good the cigar I had with me was going to be and how good the girl I took’s ass looks as I follow her down Las Vegas Blvd.
You wouldn’t even believe the dayclub pool parties here. You probably can’t get in either. The best dayclubs are at Caesar’s, Mirage, and Venetian. You shouldn’t bother with any of the rest of them unless you like a bunch of frat boys with tribal tattoos and Ed Hardy shirts and Oklahoma prom queens with fake purses that think they are a lot hotter than they really are. The girls at my spots have been in movies, magazines, and have a public image to keep up so when they let go partying they don’t want a bunch of nobody’s around that will gossip to their friends and tabloids like a bunch of Midwestern farm hicks that have never tasted the life. The dudes here pull out baseball size wads of money and finance the decadence. No one knows how these guys got their money but their speaking about docking 200ft boats in the Caribbean and running up 5 figure bar tabs. I personally care less what they did to get the cash. Most important for me, I only wear my blacked out Prada shades because if you can’t see my eyes than you can’t see me. I get my pool workout on by using weights, the hotel furniture, and dancer girls I invite to accompany on my little adventures. The DJs are on point at my pools and the party is like a story line: It has a tense buildup, a climax of euphoric fervor, and an abrupt crime scene ending of Patron shot wreckage all set to a fire-orange and crimson-red sunset backdrop.
If you are like me and have a weakness for the green and red felt tables, You really have to prearrange what you are going to do with your winnings or you will spend it on more gambling. I only take casinos money-they never take mine. This usually results in some brand new clothes, show tickets, VIP events, and an ABUNDANCE of drinking money. I don’t drink at tables. I hustle and politic every minute I gamble and I let the casinos thrive on you dumbass bitches that go there at lose $3Gs in a day and then laugh about it. I will never let anyone have my $3Gs. And I never laugh when I lose money. I instead use gambling time to replenish my body with water and save the drinking for pools and clubs. And even then, I don’t go overboard on the drinking because I converse with fly dancers, models, and moneymakers and game spitting requires a clear head. Contrary to advice from the Big Tymer’s, this isn’t the time to drink till you throw-up. She was smashed out of her mind but that wasn’t my problem. Whether I seal deals or not I have an image and a reputation to uphold and extremely expensive clothes. I’m not letting anyone ruin either.
I dress in the best clothes I own. Please try to hit up Tao in a polo or a t-shirt and expect to get any type of respect. You will see me flying past the line and getting the rope opened for me with a clique of people I brought and you will never get in. Which is good, I don’t really want you in there anyways-your game is obviously weak and everyone can see it. You control your destiny and the perception that you portray. Wear polo shirts, you’ll get treated that way. I’m not tempted by the style of all those LA d-bags that wear tees and lame jeans. I let them have that style all to themselves. I can’t begin to tell you how many times women commended me on how nice I looked. I was suited up all nights in a row (except when I just rocked my shirt I got in the French islands with a French cuff, can’t cover up those cuff links) Amongst a sea of print T’s adorned with sequins and whatever else the other side of the street is wearing, a well tailored suit and my blown open shirt really stands out.
Finally, I always eat good food. I don’t do crappy buffets, I only do the Bellagio buffet which looks like each continent put out the best food it has and sat it out for you to eat. I never eat any fast food or hot dogs or whatever else garbage people go for. I can get that stuff anytime back home, even though I don’t. Eat foods that you’ve never had, experience life. I usually hit up Ceasers’ or Bellagio’s spot at like 5:30am and the food and liquored up coffee drinks are unforgettable. It could have been my wonderful waitress Natasha…Or it could have been the fact that I chopped it up with Depp and almost knocked him for one of his lady friends. Unintentionally I might add. This is the time to be a grown-up and channel your inner Bourdain. People that really do things eat real food.
I supplement all this by only drinking champagne, Goose, and Patron; never beer. Once I let a few USC football players getting ready to go pro (athletes get the hookup in Vegas and I have nothing against them, I knew several pro athletes and a few prospects and they are fine people) go into the nightspots and order beer and clean up the Vegas sluts so that there were only quality drinks and women left for me to swoop. I’m automatically systematic like that. Never say “What happens in Vegas…” or “Vegas Baby!” I guess that works at the lameass Palms Hotel where everybody is wearing beanies and muscle shirts and is coked out of their mind but that don’t even try to pull that type of shit at the places I go. People will look at you weird and some owner or VIP will probably get your ass kicked out for showing ignorance at their parties. And don’t try to fight me. I know the girls that you like wherever we may be are sweating me like a coke bottle on a hot day, but fighting someone in Vegas is never something you want to do. Last fight that happened when I was there, one of the guys got lead poisoning. As in, 2 shells in the back of the head. And that was before he got thrown in the million dollars landscaping by a secret entryway in the back of Caesars. How impressed do you think the girls were with him after that? Watch yourself; you don’t know who you are dealing with.
Lastly, if you can’t do it big in Vegas, don’t do it. No one cares about your money problems there and you will end up across the street with the rest of the lames that are trying to ball on a budget. So here’s some advice if you don’t want to go all out in Vegas: stay drinking beer at your hometown 2-for-1 Chili’s night with your polo shirted frat brothers and talk about how great that keg stand was at your college party.
I’ll be somewhere a bit more engaging.
Click Here for these G Manifesto Las Vegas Data Sheets:
I just remembered one of the standout moments of this era.
In our shanty apartment complex near the beach, there was a superintendent, lets call him Joe. Joe, having seen first hand all our skulduggery and all the young fly beach girls we were swooping was obviously a huge fan of us.
He would even tell us when girls would come by when we weren’t at home.
One day, after pulling some slob airs, and getting lifted, we rolled back to our crib and Joe said to us, “Hey, guys, two really hot blond girls came by your apartment when you were gone”.
I responded, “Which blond girls?”
Joe shook his head, laughed and said to us, “Enjoy it while you can.”
Here is a little story of when I was a younger prototype G.
At the time, things were getting hot for my Running Partner and I in America. So we moved some green like Minnesota Fats, and rolled down to Costa Rica and Panama for an extended stay.
After relaxing in the jungle and indulging on olas to the brain, it was time to move back. Actually, we were out of dough. In fact, we were so broke that we literally only had enough money to rent an studio apartment in the worst building in our hood. Granted, our “hood” was one of the most beautiful and wealthy beach towns in Southern California, and a block from the beach. Still, it was pretty much a shanty.
That all being said, I can barely remember a time when I swooped so many fly girls as in that crappy crib. We would roll down to the beach daily, spitting The Greatest Pick up Line of All Time and roll girls back up. Once back in the crib, all we had was two beds on the floor, so swooping was basic. A real minimalist approach, if you will. All hours of the day and night, we had fly rich beach girls knocking on our door.
In short order though, we got back in biz, got our Bankrolls tight and we could move out.
With all the girls we were swooping, I remember having second thoughts.
Bottom line, Game will take you a lot further than a dope crib.
I haven’t really been keeping up with these as I have been busy swooping fly girls in Cartagena, and despite the description of the Heistman in the Hollywood heist, “The man, described as well dressed and with slicked-back hair”, and “smooth manner and debonair appearance” my ski mask has remained in my dresser drawer as of late.
Daring Heist at Poker Tournament in Germany
A heavily armed group stormed a poker tournament in a German luxury hotel Saturday afternoon and made off with a jackpot, a police spokesman said.
Several participants at the tournament in Berlin’s Grand Hyatt hotel were slightly injured when they panicked and fled following the daring afternoon heist, Carsten Mueller said.
German Poker Tournament Robbers Still on the Run
Mueller said four robbers in disguises forced employees to hand over money, and then managed to escape. Mueller declined to give details, including how much money the men got away with.
The jackpot for the tournament stood at euro1 million ($1.36 million), according to a European Poker Tour Web site. The EPT confirmed the heist on the event’s blog in an official statement, saying there had been ”an armed robbery executed by six men.” It was unclear why the number differed from the police count.
Four Seasons Robbery: Billionaire In Town For Oscars Robbed In Hotel
A well-dressed man who talked his way into a Florida sugar baron’s hotel room and stole tens of thousands of dollars worth of jewelry is believed to be the same person who pulled similar scams on a Mexican soccer team, a salsa band and an Israeli basketball team when they visited Los Angeles, police said Tuesday.
The man, described as well dressed and with slicked-back hair, posed as a Four Seasons hotel employee when he struck up a conversation in an elevator on Friday with Jose Pepe Fanjul and his wife, Emilia, according to police. Later that night, he showed up at the couple’s room and told them he needed to fix a problem with an air vent. After he left, they discovered more than $45,000 in jewels missing.
“I haven’t seen any pictures yet but I’ve had many calls and I’ve had a description, and his appearance and M.O. sounds very much like a man we’re calling Ricco Suave,” said police Lt. Paul Vernon.
Authorities gave him that nickname because of his smooth manner and debonair appearance, he said.
In a Hollywood-style heist, thieves cut a hole in the roof of a warehouse, rappelled inside and scored one of the biggest hauls of its kind — not diamonds, gold bullion or Old World art, but about $75 million in antidepressants and other prescription drugs.
The pills — stolen from the pharmaceutical giant Eli Lilly & Co. in quantities big enough to fill a tractor-trailer — are believed to be destined for the black market, perhaps overseas.
“This is like the Brink’s pill heist,” said Erik Gordon, a University of Michigan business professor who studies the health care industry. “This one will enter the folklore.”
The thieves apparently scaled the brick exterior of the warehouse in an industrial park in Enfield, a town about midway between Hartford and Springfield, Mass., during a blustery rainstorm before daybreak Sunday. After lowering themselves to the floor, they disabled the alarms and spent at least an hour loading pallets of drugs into a vehicle at the loading dock, authorities said.
“Just by the way it occurred, it appears that there were several individuals involved and that it was a very well planned-out and orchestrated operation,” Enfield Police Chief Carl Sferrazza said. “It’s not your run-of-the-mill home burglary, that’s for sure.”
Experts described it as one of the biggest pharmaceutical heists in history.
For 20 years, investigators have been chasing down hundreds of leads. They’ve interviewed countless witnesses all over the world, and still the central questions remain: where is the art and who did it?
What happened on March 18th, 1990 at Boston’s Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum? A a new portrait is now emerging about the famous heist, with some tantalizing details.
Investigators say at precisely 1:24 a.m., two men disguised as policemen knocked on the side door of the museum, saying they were called to look into a disturbance. The night watchman let them in.
Once inside, the thieves handcuffed both of the guards on duty, tied them up with duct tape and then, with free reign of the museum, they went to work.
But the question remains, who is behind the biggest art heist in history? Over the years there have been wild theories. Was it a fugitive mob boss? An eccentric art collector? Or just the work of local criminals?
“There are so many good suspects, it’s like an Agatha Christie novel where everybody’s sitting in the living room and everyone has a particular motive as to why they committed the crime,” says Kelly.
On the case for eight years, Kelly says DNA testing is now in play, but he won’t reveal details.
The Boston Globe reports that investigators may be analyzing the duct tape used to silence the guards. If there’s sweat on the tape, there’s a possibility of a DNA match, and the break investigators have been hoping for all these years.
The FBI has taken out ads, placing billboards on the highway, offering a $5 million reward for any information that leads to the safe return of the artwork.
There are two crimes in the matter: the actual theft of the artwork, for which the statute of limitations ran out in 1995.
And then, there’s the second crime: possession of stolen art. There is no statute of limitations on that, which is why the U.S. Attorney’s Office is now offering immunity. Prosecutors say if someone comes forward with the art, all will be forgiven.
The words I am about to express:
They now have their own crowned goddess. – Leandro Diaz
IT WAS INEVITABLE: the scent of Aguila and Aguardiente always reminded me of the fate of unrequited love; as I cold kicked back in a dope Tapas bar in Cartagena, Colombia with a fly Costeña named Lilia. We were grinding croquetas de pescado and Lomo Roquefort, while she was drinking Coco con Limon.
And yes, I always stay crispy clean; I got style, finesse, plus a nifty lean, whenever I hit the scene down here.
We were the last ones in the restaurant and it seemed like it was about to close; when in walked a party of nine. I made a mental note that the restaurant staff kind of jumped to attention. One of the ladies in the party, asked for a cenicero and sparked up. I noticed this as odd since smoking is mostly eradicated in Cartagena. I jumped on the opportunity and asked for a cenicero as well. And I also sparked up.
As I smell the aromatic fumes of gold cyanide, I notice something peculiar about the party of nine now seated in the restaurant. The table consists of one cat, dressed in white linen from head to toe and 8 women. The cat has mad presence.
He gets up to go to the restroom passes by me and gives me a smile. A “Game recognizes Game” type situation if you will.
It is only after he returns to his seat that our camarera informs us that the cat is none other than Gabriel García Márquez.
Truth be told, even though my girl was more fly than any girl at Gabriel García Márquez’s table, I have to give the victory to him.
Table with eight girls?
Camareras jumping to his every move?
Allowing smoking?
80 years old and straight rolling Playboy style?
Gabriel García Márquez unanimous decision over Michael Porfirio Mason.
Pacquiao as an asserted favorite to retain his welterweight title. Currently, he has been installed as a -800 favorite to win. Clottey assumes the underdog role, going off at +500.
Don’t think this one is going to be easy for Pac Man. Fighters from Ghana are legit. Check out Azumah Nelson and Ike Quartey for the data sheets.
In fact, I think Clottey has a pretty good shot a winning this fight. His size, defense, chin, strength and toughness are going to give Pacquiao fits. It is still pretty difficult to envision Pac Man losing with the roll he is on. A roll not seen since Mike Tyson was steamrolling pre-Buster Douglas. And I don’t mean E-tabs either.
That being said, Clottey will need a knockout. There is no shot he will get a decision in this one with Manny Pacquiao VS Floyd Mayweather Jr. on the horizon.
G Manifesto Hall of Fame member, Angelo Dundee on:
On what it was like working with Muhammad Ali:
“It was like going to a party every other day. It just was a tease, like I’ll give you a little insight. Everybody says Drew Brown. Drew Brown had met Muhammad in New York and then Muhammad comes back from New York and he’s training for a fight. He says, ‘Ang’—he’s training for the (Sonny) Liston fight—he says, ‘Ang, I’m bringing Drew Brown down here.’ I said, ‘What for?’. He said, ‘He makes me laugh.’ I said, ‘Okay!’”
Regarding his thoughts before Ali’s first fight with Sonny Liston:
“Muhammad felt that he was going to a party. Every fight was like that. Nothing ever bothered him. He wasn’t concerned about the guy. I kept telling Muhammad, ‘you’re bigger than this guy’, because people don’t realize Muhammad went from 182 to 212 pounds. He got bigger, he was a young kid. So when he got in the ring, I told him, ‘When you get in the middle of the ring, stand tall—and look down on the guy’. And Muhammad did exactly that and said, ‘I got you sucker.’, and this was the beginning of the fight.”
Regarding Ali’s victory over George Foreman:
“Well you know, when I heard I was going to be on your program—On the Ropes—I said to myself they’re going to ask me about the ropes in Zaire. (laughs) And I’m going to tell you, I tightened those stinking ropes at four o’clock in the afternoon but the fight wasn’t until 4am the next day. And you know what happened—the heat stretched the ropes. They were brand new hemp ropes. I didn’t want those ropes to be loose. People try to say that I designed the’ rope-a-dope’. I thought Muhammad was a dope to be on the ropes. If Foreman hit him with a forearm he would have went through the ropes. That ring was like six feet up in the air—he would have broke his back, the fight would have been all over but thank God it didn’t happen. He was so agile, and so quick, and so smart—he really did some good stuff.”
On whether Ali really asked him to stop the fight after the 14th round of the Thrilla in Manila:
“Muhammad always had a knack to suck it up. He came back to the corner and that documentary was a bunch of bologna because he came back to the corner and I said, ‘You got him baby! Get him out of there!’ This is the round they claimed I said he wanted it stopped. No, there was never any stop in Muhammad. I had to stop him that one time and it broke my heart to do it, but Muhammad wasn’t firing back. Muhammad always sucked something up; he had a knack of bringing it out and taking it to get the best of the other guy.”
On how he first started training Sugar Ray Leonard:
“The Olympic team was in New York and we were there, and Muhammad was around and he told Ray, ‘Hey! You want a good trainer? Get Angelo.’ That helped, but then when the group in Washington took him over they asked me if I would like to handle the kid. I told them I’d love to, and I got involved with Ray and he got out of the Olympics. I got along great with Ray. Then when we went to places like Providence and Boston, I made him an honorary Italian. (laughs) Hey listen! I showed him the proper way to twist spaghetti with a fork without using a spoon.”
Regarding the famous words he said to Leonard in between rounds during the Tommy Hearns fight—“You’re blowing it son”
“Boy, were those camera guys nice to me. They didn’t tape what I told him before ‘You’re blowing it kid’. (laughs) ‘You dumb, sorry you, what are you slowing down for, what are you doing, you’re fighting the guy’s fight’. Then when I was getting out of the ropes, I said ‘You’re blowing it kid’. Thank God they taped that.”
Regarding the current boxing landscape:
“I think Pacquiao and (Floyd) Mayweather will fight. I know the fans want to see that fight and if they have any kind of sense of humanity about it, either fighter, they should fight each other—just for the good of boxing. You know what? I want to go see that fight, that’s going to be a great fight. But you never know with fights. Pacquiao’s fighting (Joshua) Clottey. Clottey is a tough guy. You never know one night which fighter is going to win and it’s interesting because it’s one-on-one and to me it’s a kick to watch these guys. And I want to thank you guys for having me on the radio, because as long as you guys are talking that means we’re in action.”
Since I have been down in Cartagena, mass people tipped me off on the banning of Ed Hardy in a New Orleans Nightclub:
The idea came to Nick Thomas, Director of Programming, while watching the MTV show. “The whole thing is so funny because I was literally watching Jersey Shore in passing at 4 a.m. after being at Republic I thought, nothing would make me happier if not a single person dressed like this was in Republic. Then I thought, “Why can’t that be the rule?” The club put a flier on its window at Mardi Gras and the dress code spread across Twitpix which led to a mention on NPR. “It’s been well received because we have the best clientele, but I never thought the story would have this kind of national merit.”
Specific brands mentioned include No Affliction and Ed Hardy, but Thomas clarifies that, “The dress code isn’t limited to those brands, those are just the most obvious of the Jersey Shore-esque attire.” He includes “any other knock bedazzled tee shirts or hideous foil inks. The dress code isn’t about the brands, but the people that wear those brands. If a big beefy guy, over worked-out with way too much hair gel is copping an attitude at the door or anything within that realm, he’s not getting through. Ultimately if the clientelle in the club isn’t starting fights or disprespecting women, everyone in the venue can have a good time.”
In case you can’t see the photo clearly, it says: “If it’s on Jersey Shore it’s not coming through the door: No Affliction, No Ed Hardy, No Christian Audigier, No Exceptions.”
I have said it before, and I will say it again: I have never been one to play a “big shot”, it’s just the styles I got, that keep my Game hot.
And I am a pretty humble cat. I readily admit where my Game has flaws. I have said before that my Tech Game is slack. And I have mentioned previously that my IPhone, Twitter and Facebook Game are sub-par. And I have admitted that my Text Message Game is a glaringly faulty.
Here is another area where I haven’t done as well as I thought I could have: Swooping Fly West Coast Hipster Girls.
Now, don’t get it twisted, I have swooped tons of these girls. Probably more than whomever the hell the top hipster guy is. Still, my resume is a little spotty, unlike say my track record VS Exotic Dancers or wealthy daughters of Eastern European Oligarchs or wealthy hijas of Latin Society. In those areas, my win-loss record is the stuff of legends. Kind of similar, to Rocky Marciano.
Anyways, being a patron of the arts, I went to this Hipster/Wimpster Art gig a few weeks back.
Instead of going with my usual Custom Suit wearing, Zippo Clacking, Thick Bankrolling self (which I diagnosed as one of my issues with swooping these girls) I decided to switch up speeds like Bruce Lee driving the Fuji in the movie.
As I got dressed for the gig, I threw on some plaid pants that I had Custom Made (think Drugstore Cowboy, not Fuzzy Zoeller), an argyle type sweater I picked up in Milan, and an Italian Leather Jacket I grabbed in London.
Keep in mind, I have no idea if this is how a hipster “male” dresses, but they were the only things in my wardrobe that were pseudo “hipster like”.
Fast forward to the Art gig.
I viddy a couple of young fly hipster girls smoking some grits and I use it as an opportunity to ask for a light even though I have two Dunhill lighters in my pocket.
They ask me what I do for a living.
I respond, “I am a solopreneur.”
They ask me where I live.
I say, “In those new condos in XXXXXXX, by that ‘Starchitect‘ named XXXXX XXXXXX.”
They ask where I got my plaid pants.
I don’t tell them I got them Custom made and simply respond, “Vintage”.
The two girls are digging my steez. Although, when one hipster girl pointed to a Wimpster guy and said, “I hate that guy, I ‘de-Friended’ him” and I responded, “You should twitter that”, they kind of looked at me funny.
Regardless, I invite the flyer of the two West Coast Hipster Girls over to the makeshift bar sponsored by some weird Vodka company at the art gig as the other West Coast Hipster girl starting talking to some Wimpster guy.
Things were going smooth.
I almost blew the whole heist though, when I pulled out a huge 4 G Bankroll out of my pocket to pay for the weird Acai Vodka and sodas.
The fly hipster girl looked at me strange, but in a heads up play, I quickly asked her, “Is this Vodka Artisanal?” “Or is it an organic farm to table free-range Vodka?” and got her off the subject of my cashroll.
After some more small talk, kissing her, more drinks, meeting a bunch of Wimpsters, a venue change and at one point, I even made myself cringe when I said, “I really have become a Locavore, of sorts…lately”. I finally maneuvered myself back to the fly hipster girls crib.
Cartagena data sheets coming soon. Till then, I will be getting mad shoulder rubs, drinking Aguila, shooting Aguardiente, putting together export deals, banging out salsa, grinding arepas con queso, all the while dressed in the lightest of fabrics.
The Rest is Up to You…
Michael Porfirio Mason
AKA The Peoples Champ
AKA GFK, Jr.
AKA The Sly, Slick and the Wicked
AKA The Voodoo Child
The Guide to Getting More out of Life
