Most of the time, my instincts are pretty good. I’m great at judging whether or not dairy products are still okay to consume, I can usually tell if I’ve got a visible panty line before I even turn around in front of the mirror, and I always kind of sensed that Britney Spears was a trashbag.
WOW, I suck at flirting, though. Well, I’m good at it up to a point, but then I take it to a place it shouldn’t go. I am the Hey Hey It’s Saturday of romance.
Last night, I went to watch some stand-up comedy at The Basement. It is important to note that beer and wine are served at The Basement. To me, mainly.
In between comedians, a trio of musicians played at the side of the stage. They sat on stage during all of the comedy acts, too, so they were basically plonked directly in front of me for about three hours. Which allowed me to single out the scruffy one and make sweet love to him with my eyes the whole time. My eyes are whores. Hooray for eye-whores.
One of my companions knew a couple of the comedians, so we hung around after the show, chatting and drinking, throwing our heads back with laughter the way people who are awesome do. Eventually I was introduced to the scruffy musician, and we settled into conversation. I assume I was being charming and flirtatious, because lord knows that’s what usually happens when I’m completely moose-arsed after eighteen thousand glasses of wine.
My other companion thought she’d nudge things along, so she came over to where we were chatting and said “Hey! You’re a musician, and Jo’s a musician! Aren’t you, Jo? Show him!”.
So I took my kazoo out of my handbag and played Smoke On The Water on it.
He didn’t technically sprint away, but it’s probably enough to say that kazoos are not his thing.
When I told my mate Lorin about it, she said she was surprised that he didn’t propose on the spot, and that clearly kazoo-playing “weeds out the keepers from the dregs”.
I'm pretty much spastically in love with the concept of Kazoo As Dude Sorter.
Will report back.