I was in a cafe on Rue Baudelaire when I saw an American backpacker and sat down next to him.
He looked depressed. As my readers know, Bob Collins ain’t nothing if he ain’t sympathetic to others in pain. I slapped his back and told him to tell me what kind a gerbil was up his ass. I really wanted to make him feel better.
He hung his head. I really felt for the kid.
He said, “Listen, man, this is supposed to be the best time of my life. I’m on summer vacation, my parents are cramming thousands of dollars into my bank account every month, I’m staying at youth hostels, meeting all sorts a new cool people, but–“
“But what!” I yelled, very tenderly.
“But I can’t even get laid.”
He exhaled one long old breath a air. There. He’d said it. His secret was out in the open. He couldn’t get no pussy. Luckily for him, I was just the guy that could help him.
I said, “Listen, kid. What have you been doing?”
“I don’t know… I meet these girls, get their numbers, txt them a picture of my junk… Then I never hear from them again.”
“Are you sure you’re sending them a pic a your junk?”
“Well, I’m not sending someone else’s. I don’t have random pictures of junk on my phone.”
This kid had me stumped. Every time I sent out a picture a my junk, I got some good responses. Maybe he just didn’t have no lighting, or he had something in the background that didn’t make him look good.
“Here’s my number,” I said. “Send me your junk pic. Let’s see what you have to work with.”
He went to work on his phone. Couple seconds later my phone buzzed in my pocket. I always keep it on vibrate. When I opened it up, this is what I seen:
I’m sorry, but I ain’t really sorry. I laughed. Hard. I’m an asshole. The tip a Big Ole Cock was bigger than his whole unit.
“That’s a picture of it hard,” he said. “Why do you have to laugh at me?” Then he broke down whining and crying. Wasn’t a manly way to act, but I forgave him. I wasn’t sure he’d went through puberty yet.
“Listen, kid, you ain’t gonna get laid sending that shit to girls.”
“Help me!” He screamed.
“I’m sorry, bud, but there ain’t nothing I can do.”
I got up, took one last look at the pathetic kid, then said, “There is one thing. Txt me those girls’ numbers. I’ll try to hook you up.”
“Really? You’ll help out?”
“I can’t promise you no miracles, kid, but I’ll do what I can do. Just txt me them numbers.”
I walked away.
A little down the street, I started feeling my phone go crazy in my pocket. The kid was coming through.
Soon as I got them numbers, I started sending out txts a my own. Went something like this:
Sorry about the teenie weenie. If you wanna try out a real man, I’m all yours.
Then I attached a pic a Big Ole Cock.
The responses started pouring in:
Where and when?
Name a place?
Your place or mine?
Out a 13 txts, I nailed 11 a them. And got seconds out a 9.
How’s that for conversion ratio?
What did I learn from all a this? Some online marketing techniques only work if you got a big dick.