I had my uniquely challenged work experience kid, Ivan, idly checking the spam in my email accounts recently, because the Sunnyvale Day Release for Special Volunteers Program wants me to technologically empower the little shit or something in exchange for the disabled sticker I get to use on my car. His job is to, I dunno, think that he's doing research or something for me, which is why he rushed into my office yesterday afternoon, waving his arms and running in circles. Usually this means that he broke the toilet again, but once I calmed him down with a light tazing I learned that he had apparently made a hugely significantly discovery.
"Vin DiCarlo! Vin DiCarlo! The world's greatest dater, Mr Vengeance! He wants to teach you how to charm ladies!"
"What the fuck are you squealing about?"
"On your electro-mail! Quick, see for yourself what I sent you! Research!"
I shrugged and opened my business email, silently promising myself that if Ivan was actually sending me another Unicornville invite I'd dial my tazer up to '11'. But no, my side-kick/idiot savant had actually sent me a few annotated screen caps of interest. Suddenly I was very interested in Mr Vin DiCarlo, but not because he promised to teach me how to talk to a female Earth-human without my dick exploding.
Welcome to the special ed edition of the EIP (Electronic Investigative Process), Ivan style.
"Hmmm," I mused, lighting a smoke and inserting it into my mask's mouth hole, "We may have a case, Ivan, my boy."
Ivan started jumping on the spot and clapping his hands.
"Radical, Mr V, do you reckon he can teach me the woman thing?"
I paused and looked across at the tiny, hunch-backed, wall-eyed 49 year old with a mind of a 12 year old, and the dress sense of a 49 years old 12 year old (today he wore a faded Greatest American Hero t-shirt above corduroys and a pair of Desert Boots).
"Well, let's not rule it out, er, lad, but what I meant was I think this creep is worth investigating."
More jumping and clapping, followed by: "Ohhh, so he will be your nemesis! Like Lex Luthor, or The Joker, or maybe like the nurse at my place who makes me put powder on my hands before I go to bed?"
"I - huh? No! That's retar... not quite how the social status dynamics of internet trouble-shooting works, um, kid. This guy is probably just another pretend internet expert, so it's up to a pretend internet detective like myself to suss him out. You know, for consumer protection purposes and... oh, crap, I just realised what your powder situation is all about. Eew, by the way."
"Nurse David says it's for hygiene, but I know it's just to stop me from thinking about Nurse Tiffany - "
"Uh-huh," I cringed.
"And Nurse Elizabeth. And Counsellor Miranda..."
"Yes, I fully -"
"...and Mildred the Cook, and also the poster of Sailor Moon in the rec room..."
"Shaddup, you little pervert!" I interrupted him, clicking my tazer ominously for emphasis. Ivan pressed his straggly-bearded lips together and looked downcast at the office floor.
"Look, all it means that we have something to keep us occupied for the next few hours - reading up on this creep's sites, products and services, then compiling a highly critical yet in-no-way-slanderous-article-due-to-this-being-a-satirical-blog. You know, just like we did last week about Japanese sexbots receiving child support payments."
Ivan nodded sullenly towards the linoleum. It's hard being a kid in 2011, especially when you're old enough to be your own child molestor but the powers that be keep powdering your callused hands. "So?" he muttered.
"So, that means more research, my intellectually youthful friend! Hit this sleaze's site and get me the skinny on his goods and services, Ivy-baby."
"Sure thing, Detective Kidd!" he cried, all smiles now that we were inexplicably somehow friends again, I guess. He spun around facing the door and skipped out towards his cubicle with all the confidence and determination of a foetal-alcohol, compulsively masturbating man-child who doesn't have to worry about hand powder for another 8 hours.
I lit up another coffin nail, leaned back on my chair, and peered at the devilishly charming image staring back at me on screen. Vin DiCarlo, professional pick-up artist, self-published e-author, mentor, guru, and a whole lot of other names that mean exactly zero merit in a real man's world. Sure, I knew the guy could be totally harmless, just another entrepreneur vying for his slice of the sucker pie online. But his not-quite-Johnny-Depp-looks and general air of smug-cuntedness was all the justification I needed to pick his bullshit apart.
Vin DiCarlo, the world's greatest pick-up artist, just ask him!
Ladies describe him as 'irresistable', but let's see how well he
can flirt while trying to pick up his own teeth with broken fingers.
Next post: SD profiles the anthropomorphisation of narcissism and his team of Gen Y sex ninjas.
No comments:
Post a Comment