Get Cho' Groove On

All right, ladies: you’re at that club, the kind of club that attracts all manner of swarthy nogoodniks, and your weary eyes scan the floor as you slam back your third vodka-cooler, desperate to make someone appear even remotely appetizing, when, literally out of the blue you find yourself face-to-face with Dad the Dude.

"Hmm," you think to yourself, looking over that inescapable melon of his. "Well, he’s got all his teeth, and he looks clean."

You strike up a conversation, and Dad the Dude (whom I shall refer to from here on in as "Craig" because he looks like a Craig) seems charming enough, and he’s mildly amusing, isn’t he? Then again, you are three drinks in and, strangely, getting thirstier all the time, so you double-up on the vodka and let Craig do the talking.

[white noise]
[white noise]
[white noise]

You get it – he’s got some sort of Paul Reiser-thing going on, a "Dadhood" thing with unfortunate dalliances into really, really nondescript storytelling. You can tell Craig’s having a blast, but your eyes keep creeping back over to the dance-floor, and after a few more of his anecdotes you’re only nodding at him politely and wondering if a switch to whiskey will make him more interesting. Craig offers to put your Manhattan on his tab, but you decline, settling your eyes on that brash, coarse loudmouth holding court ten feet away. God, he was repulsive when you walked in, wasn’t he? Maybe that’s why you can’t stop staring at him?

Craig starts into a topical story about Jim Beam, but you’ve tuned him out, already rationalizing your planned move over to the jerk, and when he preemptively asks for your number, you say and drunkenly apologize:

"You’re just not my type, Craig."