>Be me & my friend
>we like to dress up in Adidas track suits and go to Olive Gardens around the tri-state and pretend to be fat itallians
>Eating one day, he dares me to try to get the waitresses number
>Literally snap at the waitress like a fat itallian
>"Hey, what is your name?"
>"Nancy"
>thats a beautiful name.
>"whats yours?"
>I lie. Antonio.
>"ooo. I like that."
>You been working here long? sees in her mid 20s
>"jeez, yes. Im actually the manager, been here since i was 20"
>Oh woah, id love to open my own itallian resturant some day.
>viability excited "OMG i want that too. I love a man who can cook" i knew i was in
>Well, im not from this area but you should give me your number.
>Smiles and with joy writes her number on a piece of paper, smiles and gives me a short shoulder rub
We leave the resturant, smiles and waves, conformation of making a call i'll never make.
We head into the mall across the parking lot. My friend, being physically fit, and better looking than me by socities standards couldn't understand it.
>fat itallian dude in a track suit wearing gold rings and chains
>they obviously think im rich
>thinks im full of shit and tells him i can do it again with any women of his choosing
While walking through the mall, he just randomly chooses a Sista. A black girl in African clothing, early 20s standing in the cooking wares store.
>Walk in, looking at giant steel spoos
>look up and stare at her
>she finally looks up and our eyes meet
>give her a quick wink
>she blushes, grabs her chest, laughs for a second, then winks back
>Friend watches all this happen and immediately interfers
>'dude you cant just pretend to be rich, whatre you going to do afterwards"
>there is no afterwards, ive been doing this for years
We continue on, Lost sight of the African.
>head into FYE, cute 10/10 behind the counter. thin, busty, brunette
>"get her number"
