Worst Pickup Lines

Well, no vulgar posts have blighted this blog yet, but here's a try. These are meant to be funny. And I did not make them up. I will confess that I have not the talent. And in case you don't like 'em, you can play one of them three monkeys and see no evil!


1. Hi, I may not be Fred Flintstone, but I’d certainly like to make your bed rock.

2. Would you believe me if I told you I’m an angel and God sent me down here on a special
mission just to give you a kiss?

3. Let’s do breakfast tomorrow. Should I call you or nudge you?

4. If I could rewrite the alphabet, I would put you between f and ck.

5. You look yummy. You must bring new meaning to the word "edible".

6. Nice shoes, do you want to fuck?

7. I’ve heard that sex is a killer. Do you want to die happy?

8. I would like you to attend my party; and then we can also invite your pants to come down

9. Hi, my name’s Karl. Remember it, you’ll be screaming it later tonight!

10. Hey baby are you wearing your space underwear tonight? Because your ass is out of this
world!

12. Hey sexy. How would you like to join me in doing some math? Let’s add you and me, subtract our clothes, divide your legs, and then multiply.

13. Hi, you outfit looks really cute. But it would look even cuter wrinkled up on my bedroom
floor.

14. Hi, let me interrupt you for a moment. The word of the day is "legs." Let’s go back to my
place and spread the word.

15. Hi,have you got a little Irish/German/Spanish/Italian/etc. in you? Do you want
some? (inexplicable - I know)

16. Want to come see my hard drive? I promise it isn’t 3.5 inches and it ain’t floppy.

17. I’m an organ donor, and I have an organ you might need.

18. Gorgeous hair. But it’d be even better brushing against my thighs.

19. Wanna play carnival? That’s where you sit on my face and I try to guess your weight.

20. If I could rewrite the alphabet, I would put U and I together.

21. There must be something wrong with my eyes, I can’t take them off you.

22. Do you have a map? I just keep on getting lost in your eyes.

23. I looked up the word "beautiful" in the thesaurus today, and your name was included.

24. Excuse me, can you give me directions to your heart?

25. Pardon me, but what pickup line works best with you?

26. Excuse me, do you have a quarter I can borrow? I told my mother that I would call her
when I fell in love with the girl of my dreams!

27. This is your lucky day, because I just happen to be single.

28. Hi, the voices in my head told me to come over and talk to you.

29. I lost my phone number. Can I borrow yours?

30. Congratulations! You’ve been voted "Most Beautiful Girl In This Room" and the grand
prize is a night with me!

31. Are you religious? Because I’m the answer to your prayers.

32. Are your legs tired? Because you’ve been running through my mind all day.

33. Is your dad a baker? Because you sure have got great buns.

34. Was you father an alien? Because there’s nothing else like you on earth!

35. Did heaven lose a couple of angels? ’Cause I can see them bouncing around in your shirt!

Accident

So what do you do if you're cycling along an empty road, whistling a merry tune, thinking about your lady love as you look adoringly up at the periwinkleblue sky and dream of the twinkle in her eyes, feeling the wind rushing through your hair, smelling the delicious vapours from the nearby "Bhola Pandey Roll Corner" guy's frying pan, when your reverie is very rudely interrupted by something pitching you off the saddle and dashing your bermudaspared knees to the unkind gravel?

The friend whose story I tell also had had the handlebar driven into a rather painful nook next to the groin.

So I won't wait for your answer to my question. Because he couldn't think one up at the moment. He had bitten his lower lip and sniffed back an accidental tear. As many (of course, pain of this description is a masculine privilege) before and after him had felt when they had narrowly escaped traumatic emasculation, he had thought that he had died, for his field of vision had filled with stars.

As comprehension had dawned upon him, he had put two and two together in his slow pate, and had calculated that after all the hell he had put his unfortunate parents through, and all the money he had nicked from his dad's purse to buy cigarettes or an occasional White Mischief, and all the sweet epithets he had bestowed upon the much-hated teachers when their backs were turned, and all the sites he had visited on the internet that would have made NetNanny blush scarlet and hand over a bashful resignation- he should have been seeing hot, boiling, glutinous orange, bubbling lava. Not stars.

So, he had inferred, he wasn't dead.

And then, he had seen the cause of his pain.

For there, four feet off, standing very still with its ears pricked up and its eyes small and fearful, breathing very fast, looking ready to bolt, was the flatsnouted corpulent porker that had so effortlessly knocked him over.

"It was the fattest pig you'll ever see," he had told me.

I won't waste time giving you my observations about the way in which most teenagers tend to exaggerate their problems, and comment that the pig may not have been as gigantic as my friend had made it seem, but somewhat average-sized, I mean, pigs are always somewhat fat, maybe they find it fashionable...........oh, never mind!

But here's what he had done.

He had racked his brain for a bloodcurdling malediction to throw at the offender. He had thought and thought. He had opened his mind's Lexicon Of Unprintable Adjectives and turned the pages from A to Z, looking for something to...............

And then he had understood the depth of the soup he was in.

What the hell do you call a pig?

But with uncharacteristic intelligence, he had found the answer in a moment of glorious inspiration...

"MANUSHER BACHCHA!!" he had screamed at the top of his cracking, adolescent voice.

The pig's eyes had narrowed, if such a thing is possible. Then he had given vent to his unconditional disapproval of this conduct with an earsplitting "OINK!"

Then, he had turned up his snout, and left.

Intelligence

Aquilus and I were talking about intelligence today.
And the conversation brought back the memory of a not very pleasurable incident that had blotted his escutcheon, and mine, a couple of months ago.
One encounters all sorts among the vestiges of humanity in that madhouse of a hospital. Ranging from the flamboyant gutka-graffitizers of the inter-storey elevator-shaft-walls to the hoaryheaded puffyeyed foulmouthed squat professors.
My story dwells on this latter type.
For there is one of them that prowls our classrooms, canteen and library. One that I, a reasonable while back, had diagnosed of having a grossly malformed pair of frontal lobes. One that Aquilus and Shaky have lovingly (just joking) christened Bandicoota bengalensis. One that I shall refer to henceforth as B.
He shoots obscenities at people left, right and centre. He grabs hold of hapless students and fries their cerebri till desiccation. He has a self-professed problem with authority, and paradoxically despises others with the same quality. He claims to be influential enough to ‘chuck anyone out of college’ for no good reason. I confess that I don’t know how (because he hasn’t done anything of the sort yet, according to a teacher of my father’s who knew B well, and who adds with a wink that he thinks that B is actually a ‘sport’, and, therefore, incapable of such atrocities even if he had the happy power).
So B, one fine morning, had decided to pollute the atmosphere of our classroom. As is his wont, he started with his ritual of self worship.
If there is a kind of teacher I cannot stand, it is one with a superiority complex. This one thought he knew English, despite his appalling rendering of the same. And he accused us, Aquilus and myself, of not being up to scratch in the noble tongue.
And if that were not sacrilege, he went on to accuse us of having poor mathematical ability. His firm belief is that he would have made Ramanujan look puerile had he cultivated his talents in that direction, and that we had ended up shut in that hellhole with him because we were no good with numbers.
This was said in presence of one viator magnus, who had scored the nation’s highest in Mathematics in IITJEE Mains 2004, and one A.C. who had topped the entrances to the Indian Statistical Institutes.
And then this self-proclaimed genius had decided to deepfry Aquilus. I must say that he stood the torment like a man, and scored one over B in his own right. But I will not tarry on that part of the story. Old wounds are best left at rest.
After Aquilus had fought his battle, and I had been referred to in a most embarrassing fashion, came the climax of this tale. It would not be out of place to mention here that both Aquilus and I have fared rather favourably in our IQ tests. Our rating has always hovered around `prodigy’ in the Briggs-Meyers topology, and our mental ages stand a dignified decade ahead of their physical counterparts. I also happen to be a member of the International High IQ Society.
To cut the story short- neither of us is stupid.
QED.
B had other ideas.
Looking for a new brain to fry, he said `Akta s*** intelligent phes nei b*** gota classtay. Mukhgulo....’
And he fixed his watery, porcine eyes on me.
I gave him my adorable teddy-bear look, hoping he’d find me dumb beyond description, and succeeded.
Aquilus looked back tensely at the eyes that pootled over his countenance to Shaky’s, which, bless him, was rather red, but he passed, too.
And they locked onto T. After passing nearly four hundred and fifty worth in IQ points staring him in the face, he picked someone so obviously rated nincompoop that we nearly burst out laughing despite the situation.
Inference.
Intelligent people always rate themselves as incompetent, to leave room for improvement.
Fools live in their mangy little paradises of self-exaltation.
And imbeciles like myself blabber grandiose generalisations like the ones above when they should be devouring Virology like there were no tomorrow.